Rally for Tamgha-e-Jurrat for this guard

Pakistan's Dark Heart? Or Pakistan's resilient heart?

An Australian rebuttal to the ignorant cover of TIME.




Thoughts?

Pakistani police

From a facebook post. This is from an indivdiual who is actively involved in the peaceful protest of persecution against religious minorities in Pakistan.

"Yesterday, when about 30 or 40 of us were holding a peaceful protest at Teen Talwar against the ongoing violence, the police and Rangers moved us from the roundabout within an hour, even though we were not breaking any rules or blocking traffic. Ten minutes later, when we were standing on the sidewalk debating talking, they asked us to leave the area. We walked to a nearby dhaba for a cup of tea and Rangers showed up there as well, saying that they had warned us to break up the protest. They also wanted to take away with them a young man who had spray painted some anti-army and anti-ISI slogans, blaming them (rightly, at least partially, in my opinion) for the security situation. While wall chalking may be illegal, the person to go after is not that young man but political parties, religious groups, companies advertising their products who have plastered the city with their slogans.

Fast forward one day and the security forces take a nap as dozens of houses are torched and thousands rendered homeless in Lahore. They continue sleeping as people plan attacks and carry them out, when people in Quetta, Karachi, Lahore and all over the country watch their lives crumble. Indeed, the greatest threat to this country comes from a small group of people standing on a roundabout with some posters and banners, because that's the only time security forces seem to wake up to the fact that they have a “duty” to do and are “wearing uniform”.

Please try and join the protest against this horrendous crime against the Christian community, today (Sunday) at 4 pm outside the Karachi Press Club."

Vote for the Hijra....

...She has more balls and gutts and honesty than the idiots we now have running our country. Pakistani transgender candidtate to run for office!

FlashMob in Pakistan

Port Grand! To raise funds for healthcare for lowincome families. Apparently every dance donated 200 (which may not be a lot) but when you see so many of our youth dancing it adds up a lot and adds up to show that our youth are peaceful, progressive and have better solutions than the constant heckling and arguing fueled by talk shows hosts on Geo and ARY and XYZ!

Memories!

Image courtesy of Pak Tea House!

Sad but true image of the day!

Pakistani weddings. Dinner is served.

I dont know whether to laugh or cry at this....

Closer!!!

Before starting my senior year of college, I came home to Pakistan for the summer. But this time, everything felt different. Very, very different.

Why Yes!

For starters, I was returning home after my very first experience of a broken heart. But on another note, senior year is just intimidating and overwhelming for anyone. A moment when you may have to stop for a second and maybe, just maybe…think about growing up. Graduation, jobs, grad school, GREs, resumes, rent…all topics that I was now forced to think about yet I pushed them as far back in my mind as I could; burying them only under indifference and denial. But in a way I had grown up and come a long way from the girl who first stepped foot on a liberal arts campus with an excited twinkle in her eye because I was finally on my own. Landed in a world called “abroad” where I could now ‘live life on my own terms.’ When my heart was perfectly fresh without as much as a scratch on it. Life or at least the next four years were paid for. But now that the four years were coming to a quick end, I found myself standing at the same spot on my cozy little campus. A completely different person. One with wisdom, age, experience. A big crack in the middle of my heart. Lesson after lesson, learned the hard way.

The friends who had become my world and my family, were all gone. They were busy trying their best to grow up too. Jenny had lost her scholarship due to terrible grades and had no choice but to move back to Compton. The pain of not achieving the dream she had come so close to as an immigrant from Sudan. Julie? Though she had managed to graduate, she unfortunately discovered what we were all about to realize as soon as we would leave this picture perfect campus….that no matter how hard we worked through papers and all-nighters for this college degree, it turns out that it doesn’t automatically result in a flood of job opportunities and open doors. A Bachelors degree in a bad economy meant as much as a soda can tossed out of a vending machine. So Julie found herself living back at home in Staten Island (a home she had promised never to return to) working at a Victoria’s Secret in her local Mall. As for me, I had no plans that summer either so I went home to Pakistan to worry some more, then mask myself in denial and maybe figure out what I was to do with my life when I would walk out in a black gown and a rolled up diploma that I could trade in for a Yard Sale flyer.

X

So there I was. Back home in Isloo for the summer. Doing nothing but sleeping late, lunching with Peanut, watching VCD movies that stalled and choked at climax scenes and getting high on local hashish. A few months had passed since my dramatic breakup with Mustafa at the New Jersey train station and although some days were harder than others; I was making progress. Sooner or later, I knew….there were open boxes I had to unpack out of my life…unanswered questions I had to search resolutions to. I just wasn’t prepared to come face-to-face with them so soon.

The first time it happened was just a few days after I had landed in Islamabad. After a spontaneous shopping trip, I returned home and nonchalantly asked Jajee Baba if there were any phone messages for me.

‘Jee woh Sakina bibi ka phone aya tha aap kay lye’

‘Sakina bibi?’ I was shocked. What did she want?

The cousin I had always dismissed. The one who treated me like an idolized goddess while I barely cared about her existence. The one who claimed to envy me. But the one I now found myself envying. She held the one thing I never could. Mustafa’s heart as his first true love!

I nodded at the message and returned to my room with no plans of calling Sakina back. How could I? Was it jealousy for having Mustafa? Was it animosity for being defeated? Or was it guilt for loving a man she was once engaged to? Was it simply the fact that I never really had a relationship with her so why start now? I didn’t know. I probably still don’t.

X

The second time was a day later while I was having dinner with my parents. Once again, Jajee Baba barged in to inform me that Sakina bibi was on the phone. Tell her I’m busy and I will call her later. I rudely replied.

‘Kyoun bhai? You should talk to her. She is in Pindi these days. You know Shabana is pregnant.’

‘Mama, I will call her later….you know I was never friends with any of these cousins…have you forgotten how much Shabana used to bully me as a child?’

‘Yes but that was Shabana….not Sakina…why take it out on the sister…. she has always been so fond of you….’

‘Mama….its more complicated than that.’

And if only Mama knew, what I actually meant by that statement.

X

On the third day, she called again. I was heading out to have lunch with Peanut who was also home for the summer and just as jaded and confused about what the future held for him. I was in a rush so I told Jajee Baba to let her know that I would call her later. Without meaning it!

X

‘What do you think she wants?’ I asked Peanut that afternoon as we lay on his bed in The Flat. Just like our A-level days. Sade’s ‘By Your Side’ playing in the background. My head in his lap.

‘Closure.’ He replied as he inhaled a long puff of his joint.

‘So you think she knows?’ I got up to face him.

He replied with nods as he held his breath for a stronger high and then exhaled slowly.

I returned my head to his lap, because at that point it was the safest and most comfortable place I could crawl into. My childhood best friend and his invaluable wisdom I had so often relied on.

“Just give her a call” He continued “She is your cousin so sooner or later, the two of you are bound to come face to face… why not get the awkwardness over with in a controlled setting where you call the shots.’

‘For fuck-sake, I slept with her fiancé Peanut!’

‘Former fiancé.’ He corrected me.

‘Yeah but it’s the same thing.’

‘No its not. And you didn’t just sleep with him. You fell in love with him.’

‘Oh and that’s supposed to make it any better?’

‘Yes. Because it wasn’t just a one-night stand on an intoxicated night of abandon. It was a relationship with a man you fell madly in love with. He just also happened to be linked to your past and your family. You are not the villain here Padash. You can prevent a lot of things but you cant prevent falling in love.’

He was right and I knew it. Today or tomorrow, I would have to face reality. Avoiding it was just a cowardly escape. I stared ahead at a Spice Girls poster on his wall, still intact from our A-level days when he was a scrawny, effeminate goth kid from the UK but still full of so much wisdom and insight.

When Peanut handed me the joint for comfort, I took a long deep puff. Blurring reality for a few seconds, was always a good start.

‘Padash.’ He continued as he ran his fingers through my hair ‘I have known you for years. You are a strong and brave woman who doesn’t put up with bullshit. It’s what I have always admired in you. For whatever reason, this man has weakened you and I will always hate him for that. But you have to remember, he’s history now. I want to see the old, strong Padash again. Who wouldn’t be terrified of meeting her cousin Sakina.’

I nodded and handed Peanut his joint back and somewhere along the way, I fell asleep in his lap for a good 40 minutes.

Peanut had his own decisions to make. The following year he would be graduating from St. Martins where he had pursued his dreams of art and painting male nudes. That same summer, he had also interned for a fashion designer to make up some credits for school. The designer may have been impressed by Peanut’s artistic eye but was more enthralled by his six-pack abs, bulging biceps and godly pecs. I don’t really know if they slept together or not but at the end of the internship, the designer asked Peanut to model for him. It was an unexpected proposition but Peanut readily agreed. For a boy who had been the asexual, sissy in high school - bullied by males and revered by females - this was an affirming opportunity! Without requesting his father’s permission, he immediately decided to head to Karachi for the photo shoot.

On my way back to college at the end of that summer, I picked up a magazine from the airport waiting lounge. As I skimmed through the pages, I was awestruck with how sexy and confident my childhood best friend looked. He stared right at me through the pages; his chest glistening with fake sweat and, his blemishes airbrushed. His eyes piercing through the glossy pages with manly bravado as a skinny damsel with perfect skin and perfect hair dangled from his muscles. Her own bony arms wrapped around with convincing lust. It was an incredibly glamorous photo shoot and I have kept that magazine with me to this day. It was an attestation to the fact, of how far the two of us have come over the years.

But many weeks before I was ever at that airport waiting lounge heading back to college, I still had my meeting with Sakina to take care of.

X

When I got home from that very insightful afternoon in Peanut’s Flat, Jajee Baba informed me that Sakina had called…yet again! You had to give it to the girl, she didn’t give up easily. So I guess, there was only one thing left to do. Hold my breath and take the plunge.

X

‘Yaar Padash I’m so bored, thank you so much for calling.’ Sakina was not only cordial but more than excited to hear from me. ‘I came here after my exams because Shabana baji is pregnant but there is nothing to do here. I am so bored. I got so excited when I heard you were in town from America!’

‘Haan….so…lets meet up…do you wanna come over or….’

‘How about we go to lunch somewhere. Some place cool in Islamabad. I want to get away from Pindi!’

‘Sure…we can do that too…maybe…’

‘Zabardast. Tomorrow afternoon then?’

‘Oh…ok…ok.’

Tomorrow was a little earlier than I anticipated but what choice – or plans - did I have? Peanut would already be on a plane for a glamorous week in the fashion metropolis of Karachi, prepping for his first photo shoot as a male model. Me? I would be going to lunch with the woman who was the reason I could never be with the man who had broken my heart…and she was also the reason I should never have been in love with him in the first place.

I hung up and sat still on my bed for a while staring into thin air. I had no idea what to expect from this amicable ‘lunch’!

X

The next afternoon, as my driver trekked out to pick “the other woman” up from Rawalpindi, I showered and got dressed in my room. Wait? Maybe I was the other woman in this picture? Geez it was all getting so confusing by then. Why couldn’t I have a normal life? A normal boy meets girl story? I know what you’re thinking readers…this girl meets way too many boys that is why…but even the best of us sluts fall in love sometimes.

At one point, as I frantically fixed my hair and make-up in the mirror, the irony struck me once again. Was I really fretting so much about getting ready for Sakina? Sakina? When did this happen? When did Sakina become my competition? When did I start comparing myself to her? Why did it matter if I looked presentable and even pretty for her. I was almost about to give up when the intercom in my room buzzed and Jajee Baba excitedly disclosed that Sakina bibi was here and waiting for me downstairs.

I took one last look at myself. Attired in a fitted denim kurta with my hair parted in the middle, I looked perfectly conservative. For a second, I even deliberated grabbing a dopatta to go along with this traditional ensemble but then I just grabbed my purse and headed downstairs.

I was already expecting Sakina to look as seraphic and calm as ever. I may be referred to as “sexy”, “hot” and “pretty” quite often but there was no denying…that adjectives that were saved for girls like Sakina were “beautiful” and “gorgeous.” Beauty and innocence personified. An Aunty’s wet dream. The kind of women Urdu novels spent three pages in detail when they introduced their heroine.

But that day, I was shocked at what stood before me. She looked nothing like the innocent, “shareef” and boring cousin I had always dismissed. The girl with long hair tied up in a bun. Who only always wore kurtas and sat quietly in corners of drawing rooms. An “achee bachee” who others would view as a potential “achee bahoo”. But that day, she stood before me in a tight black T-shirt and even tighter jeans. Her hair was permed, cut short, highlighted in a faded shade of red and hanging loosely to one side of her shoulder. Make-up was caked on her face. I could not help but notice how much she had changed while I was busy sleeping with her fiancé…or former fiancé…or whatever.

‘Wah yaar looking very nice…” She got up and hugged me.

I reciprocated the compliment. Even with this cadaverous attempt to be ‘different’ her beauty was still untarnished.

‘Aur sunao? How is college? How is America?” She sat down running her fingers nervously through her hair.

“Do you wanna have a cup of tea before….”

“Naheen lets just go to lunch…I am starving. Plus you cant really have a sutta here.”

I assumed she was hinting at my sordid reputation in the family as the girl who smoked. She was talking about herself.

X

The first few minutes after we settled on our table and placed our orders were as uncomfortable as expected. Nervously we looked around, arms folded across the table as we searched for how and where to begin. I had decided on taking Peanut’s advice of not volunteering any information but if asked, I was not going to lie either. With my chin up, I stared ahead. Bring it on!

‘I know you wont mind if I smoke?’ she pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

I was a little shocked. ‘I..uh…sure….I actually didn’t know you smoked.’

‘But I always knew you did.’

I was already reaching for my own pack of Marlboros ‘Well….that’s hardly news to anyone….stories of my sinful and aberrant ways are repeated quite often in the family gossip circuit from what I hear. What is it they called me? Patakhee Padash….”

‘I think it is great…actually I envy you for that. It is what I always admired about you ever since I was a kid…I secretly wished to be just like you.’ She flicked her cigarette like an amateur.

‘Please don’t tell me that’s why you started smoking!’

She shook her head ‘Not really but it was an effort to be like you….or maybe to be someone like you…’

‘But why….’

‘Mustafa.’

Do not show reaction…do now show reaction…do now show reaction…

‘What did he have to do with it?’ I did not show reaction.

“I was young and stupid and thought it was what he wanted. That maybe it would impress him.”

I wondered if that was a polite segue into the real reason we were to have lunch today. Mustafa!

I let her ask her next question ‘Do you see him at all in America?’

‘Mustafa?’ I knew exactly who she meant…I just wasn’t going to divulge information that easily.

She nodded, ‘Yes.’

‘Well I have…in this past year….but honestly I haven’t seen him in months…and probably wont in the near future…or again.’ I dropped my first hint.

‘You guys were close family friends na…’

‘His parents were close friends of Mama Baba, yes. He also happened to be a friend of Bhai Jan’s. But that was not the reason why we started meeting this past year.’

‘Well then you must have heard that our engagement broke…a while ago.’

I nodded.

She took a deep breath full of hurt before looking away as if she was forcing back tears. The silence was aggravating and I decided to ask my questions now. Ones only she could answer.

‘Why did it end…if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I broke it off.’

‘Because?’

‘It wasn’t going anywhere…but he didn’t try to resist either. He probably wanted it to end just as much.’

‘Didn’t you love him?’

‘I did…I thought I did…’

‘Did he love you?’

She shrugged. ‘If he did I wouldn’t have ended it.’

‘I think he did.’ I added.

‘He sure didn’t act like it!’

‘You were his first love Sakina.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ My statement immediately caught her attention ‘Did he say anything.’

I shook my head ‘Some things don’t have to be said for them to be true.’

‘You don’t know what he was like. He may be different as a friend…or whatever…but he was a terrible person to be in love with. It wasn’t what l had expected love to feel like. It was like I could never be good enough for him. I could never be what he wanted me to be. I was tired of it Padash. Tired of running after him. Tired of doing everything he wanted me to do. Tired of changing myself completely to make him happy… yet each time I would be left just as confused as before…’

As Sakina went on about the failure of her relationship with Mustafa and the way he broke her heart; I found my hardened shield slowly melt away. I had misjudged this moment. Sure, she may have wanted to meet me to put her suspicions about me to rest but this innocent little female had no tricks up her sleeve. She was just another soul left heartbroken by Mustafa. Just like myself. As she ranted on and on with hurt about the way she felt with him…the way he treated her….the way she was always confused and the way she kept apologizing for herself I felt like I was listening to myself. It was all the same questions I had asked myself the past year. It was exactly how I felt. Exactly how he had made me feel.

‘…He always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. Look at me…I changed myself completely….I started dressing differently….wearing tighter clothes for him….western stuff because I thought that’s what he would like…. I started smoking…. Padash….you know I almost decided to lose my virginity to him? Yes I cant believe I am telling you this…even Shabana baji doesn’t know but he used to think I was such a prude that I was even willing to cross that bridge. I didn’t though. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway…’

The poor girl just wanted to share her side of the story. She was not there to discourage me…dissuade me…or threaten me…she was simply there for….for….closure! And as she spoke I realized that I could no longer blame myself for the failure of my relationship with Mustafa either. I could have become exactly like Sakina….but it wouldn’t have mattered. It was not me…it was not Sakina…it was him. Mustafa truly did not know what he wanted. Because Sakina and I were as opposite as we could be…yet he made us both feel like we needed to be like the other. I mean if we just stepped back and looked at each other, we would have chuckled at this new reality. We had both attempted to dress like each other that day because that is what we thought he wanted. How pathetic!

‘….He always used to complain how I was too innocent and boring. He always liked girls that were adventurous…risky…wild…the type that excited him. Girls that liked to party…would take risks…girls like….like….you…’

I smiled at her last words. ‘Trust me….that’s not what he wanted either….’

‘But that’s what he always said what he wanted…it is what I tried to become for him…it is…..’

I leaned over and grabbed Sakina’s hand and looked her straight in the eye ‘Sakina…listen to me…that would not have helped…trust me, I would know….’

Her eyes widened but only with mild shock. Maybe she was stunned at my partial confession or maybe she was just surprised that I finally shared it. But only for a few seconds she curled her lips into a shocked O and then pulled back in her seat.

‘So…where do we go from here?’ I continued.

‘I have to move on. I really do.’ She further confessed.

‘Yes we do.’

‘But it is hard….it is so hard getting over someone.’

I knew just how hard it was. I was in the process of doing exactly that…for exactly the same person. Hard did not even begin to describe it.
‘Would you be open to reaching out to him? Give him another chance?’

She shook her head. ‘It is not worth it…I cannot live my life with him…I will always be miserable…I cannot spend my life trying to make someone happy and never be able to succeed. I just do not know how to move on.’

‘How does one move on?’ I wanted to know for myself too.

‘Things have gotten very stressful at home….I have gotten a few more proposals and I keep declining them all. The first few years I was still young and Ami Abu knew that I needed time to heal. But now they are telling me I need to get over it and get married. And I know they are right…I just cannot bring myself to do it all over again….that is one of the main reasons I came here to Shabana’s to get away from it all. But even she is saying the same thing. I know they are right…I just have to stop being such a child about it.’

‘You are not being a kid Saks…there is nothing wrong with feeling the way you do. Take as much time as you want and do what is right for you. If it means giving Mustafa another chance…then I say…go for it…I really do feel that he loved you… he probably still does.’

‘No Padash. Mustafa is the kind of man who will only love something when he doesn’t have it….the minute he gets it….he decides it is not what he wanted….’

Truer words have rarely been spoken. I even found myself wondering if that meant he longed for me the same way now that I had left his life. But if I was to learn anything from my cousin Sakina, it was to let go and move on. She was making an effort. I had to do the same too.

‘What would help you in getting over him?’ I asked.

Though teary eyed, she smiled looked up and smirked ‘Well to start with, I have to stop listening to our song.’

‘Your song?’

‘I know it sounds stupid…but today when I was getting ready…I promised myself that after our meeting today I will never listen to that CD again. Ever. It is just a song that reminds me of him. It was what I used to listen when we were engaged.’

I stared right at her. I should have agreed to meet her weeks ago.

‘You think I am stupid, don’t you.’ She smirked.

‘Not at all….in fact…I think it’s the best idea ever!’

She smiled and looked up right when our lunch arrived. ‘Thank you….seriously….this helps.’

I smiled and raised my glass in the air ‘Agreed!’

X

The rest of the lunch was great. It was almost as if we connected on a bond that we both shared yet did not blatantly discuss. After lunch, I accompanied her to Pindi. It was almost uncanny but on the way there, the song ‘Hands Clean’ by Alanis came on. Well, maybe it wasn’t entirely coincidental. Just like her, I would listen to the song at least once a day. That and Nusrat Fateh Ali’s Night Song CD.

‘Have you ever heard this song?’ I smiled at her.

She shook her head, ‘No…what is it?’

‘It’s a song by Alanis Morissette. The lyrics are beautiful. You should listen to each word. It helped me during a very rough time ….a time very similar to yours.’

As she listened to the words, she harped on about how much she loved it. We played it again. And then again.

‘Tell you what’ I suggested ‘From today on….whenever you feel the urge to listen to the song which reminds you of him….listen to this song instead. It is only fair to replace a CD with a fresh new one with no baggage.’

Sakina laughed ‘Are you giving it to me?’

I nodded.

‘On one condition’ she added ‘Before you head back home…you will take that other CD with you. I cant trust myself if I still have it around.’

‘It’s a trade!’ I winked.

I dropped her home. She invited me in for tea and although I didn’t accept the offer for tea I did go inside to take her CD. Shabana was there to greet me. She was swollen like a pregnant football and although she tried so hard I still couldn’t help but be a bitch to her. She wasn’t surprised. By now she was used to it.

X

On the way home as I sat in the backseat looking out the window, I gave the driver the CD Sakina had given me to load on to our car stereo system. A beautiful song by Nazia Hassan began to waft through the car. A song called ‘Dil ke lagee.’ It was soothing and her voice was like a refreshing balm. With my head resting back, I hummed along to the beautiful words.

‘Dil ki lagee…
Kuch aur bhi…
Dil ko deewana karay…’

A few minutes later when my phone beeped with a text message I looked down to discover it was from a more important man in my life. Peanut!

‘How did it go?’ It read.
‘LOL…not bad!’ I texted back.
‘Whew, what was it about?’
‘Closure.’
‘For who?’
‘For both of us.’

‘Meree iltijaa hay…
Khuda say dua hay….
Yeh dil juda na karayyyyyy…’

X

A year later, I was sitting in my dorm room on a Sunday morning with my mother on the phone. And among the news and gossip that she shared about the family, she went on to matter-of-factly insert that Sakina had gotten engaged to a nice young man with a good job and a good house in Doha. ‘Waisay…I always liked her more than her sister. Very nice girl…she deserves to be happy.’

‘I agree.’ I smiled into the phone ‘She does.’

Pakistani, Indians Celebrate Independence Day Together!!1

An amazing idea!


Lets all join.


http://www.facebook.com/#!/events/243690589069619/246741145431230/?comment_id=246749742097037¬if_t=group_comment

Kudos to...

Beena Sarwar
Rehan Allahwallah
Hassan Zafar
Prayaag Kasundra
Ilmana Fasih
Harsh Kapoor
Ronnie Philip
Shumail Zaidi
Chintin Girish
Waqas Ali
Rehman Ilyas
Jaitin Desai
Harjinder Singh
Deep Saida

one step forward....a million steps back.....

Bhai Jan and Me!!!

It may come as a shock to many of you – it does to me at times - but I wasn’t born an only child. Truth is, my parents always had another offspring tucked away in boarding schools on Hill Stations. My Bhai Jan. Yet, due to a decade of an age difference, we never really enjoyed the sibling camaraderie most of our peers did. To him I was a baby he could nuzzle and scold. And to me he was an old man I saw only on the weekends. A stranger in my immediate family who both intrigued as well as bored me. But then there was that one summer! A summer the two of us became surprisingly close for a brief moment in our lives. Secrets were suddenly shared. Advice was sought. And for a split second, a brother and a sister almost 10 years apart bonded over a woman neither of us had ever met. The Mystery Woman we called her, whose face we had never seen and voice we had never heard. Yet it was she who brought us close. The summer a brother also unknowingly taught his young sister an important lesson about life and love. If only I had listened!

Why Yes!

For as far back as I can remember, Bhai Jan’s presence in my life was fairly sporadic. The apple of Baba’s eye, my brother had a very specific trajectory in life charted out by our father dearest. Impressed by the disciplined offsprings of his friends, Baba immediately followed suit and decided to send Bhai Jan off to a boarding school at a young age as well. For years most of my visual recollections of Bhai Jan are in blazers and cadet haircuts. I would see him only on the weekends when he came home or sometimes when we zigzagged up windy roads for a daytrip to Murree. We would spend the day as a family on Mall Road and then end the day with Karhaee for lunch. He would buy me candy floss or a packet of Choco Chums, planting a kiss on my forehead while Mama always bade him farewell in tears before heading home. I never quite understood why. Sure, I savored my treats and watched the snaky roads of Muree lead us back with Vertigo to Islamabad but I wouldn’t be lying if I declared that I really didn’t comprehend the fact that the boy we saw on the weekends had occupied the same womb as I at one point. In fact quite often, I forgot that I even had a brother.

But I wasn’t just to blame for that. Bhai Jan barely made an effort to get to know me either. Whenever he came home for the holidays, he spent most of his time cooped up in his room listening to cassette tapes with friends. I would hear them bouncing tennis balls on the wall while I would try to decipher the inaudible mumblings of raging male hormones emanating from inside a forbidden lair. The room which was always a source of intrigue for me: from the giant stereo system which blasted pop songs to the awe-inspiring poster of a crazy looking woman with short curly hair, a mole on her upper lip and a lollipop in her hand. Later, I would learn that the crazy looking woman had a name to go with that appearance; Madonna. Yet if I ever dared enter his room, he would tease me with his friends. When I would ask them to take me out for drives, they would dismiss my requests with sarcastic sniggers. But every now and then, they would surprise me with a bar of Jubilee or a cup of Polka ice cream when they returned home from hours of ‘Poondee’ just to appease the insignificant toddler which was I.

Baba had always been an avid proponent of higher education so when Bhai Jan finished his primary schooling and moved back home with us, the pressure to start applying to foreign universities followed almost immediately. Although as a student at Lawrence College, Bhai Jan would complain about early morning drills and the strict regimen of hostel life, but now that he was home, he was often complaining about missing that exact same life. His friends in Murree, the Sirs and their quirks, the Gallian solidarity and how this yuppie, suburban existence of Islamabad bored him.

Shortly after he moved back, we all went to Gujranwala for Eid where Shumaila and Shabana giggled around him like giddy school girls while I remained the untouchable outcast. Now I know, that for every girl her brother – no matter what he actually looks like - is God’s gift to womankind but in my case I had no choice but to feel that way when I would see cousins like S&S flit around him doe eyed and all smiles. Even Mama’s friends doted over him like cougars till their eyes fell on me and their smiles curved down into disapproving frowns.
‘Uff your son is so handsome na, bas jaldee say shade kara do iss kee.’ Auntie Shamim would gush in our drawing room with her raised pinkie as she drank our tea. Then when it was my turn ‘Shakal kee tu yeh bhi achee hay…bas thora wazan kam kara do na is ka?’
Aunty Shamim was one to talk. With arms the size of Vin Diesel’s thighs and stomach rolls like Pajero tires bulging through her saris.

After Eid, Bhai Jan returned home early to complete some remaining college applications before the deadline while we stayed for an extra two weeks. Two weeks I spent being bullied by cousins who harbored a crush on my brother but had derogatory nicknames for me. I spent those weeks by myself reading Enid Blyton books in different corners of the Gujranwala house. When we returned to Islamabad, I noticed a complete 180 in Bhai Jan’s disposition. All of a sudden, he seemed like the happiest person in the world. Gone was his homesickness and the constant yearning for his former hostel life. He even seemed a little too excited to see me. Oddly he now displayed a sudden interest in his baby sister’s life, asking me questions about school, my friends, the class structure etc. That night as I examined the items in my pencil case and made sure my bag was ready for school, he came into my room with a twinkle in his eye and offered to drive me to school. Ok, now this chirpy side of Bhai Jan was getting stranger. The few times he had to drive me to school when our driver was on holiday, he complained and whined to no end. Now, he was offering to do the same voluntarily! With a smile and a hug no less? He insisted he was going to start hitting the gym early after he dropped me off at school. Alright! Sure! Whatever you say!

For the next few days, this new sunny disposition of Bhai Jan’s remained untainted. The door to his room was now wide open with curtains pulled to allow light in a room which was once perpetually and deliberately dark. If that wasn’t strange enough, I was now often invited inside his forbidden lair. Literally forbidden because it had a ‘No Visitors’ poster on the front door. On his stereo, he would play Vital Signs songs for me and then make chocolate bars in gilded wrappers appear from his sleeve like a magician. The boy who spent most of his hours locked up in his room sulking over how much he missed his school friends was now suddenly stopping by my room and taking an interest in my elementary school life. It finally fell into place when his questions and curiosity in my life morphed into a confession. The first secret he had ever confided in me. While we had been away, he had been communicating with an unknown damsel from the senior section of my school. It all started when he had returned home early from the Eid Holidays and found an anonymous love letter addressed to him in our mailbox. It was from an Fsc student who claimed to attend my school. She wrote that she had seen him pick me up from school one day and then found my address from school records. In poetic clichés, the love letter harped on like a mushy love song but gave absolutely no identifying information about the writer. It was signed only as ‘Mystery Woman’.

I would never think that my brother would ever fall for such cheap chipostree, but evidently he did. This sudden change in his personality taught me the first lesson about love. At least once in our lives, we all fall in love. Hard. Head over heels. The kind that humbles us. I say that because Bhai Jan was always the most arrogant person I knew. Now he had gone from being a cocky player to a vulnerable and love-struck puppy.

Bhai Jan and this girl corresponded mainly through letters. As much as he begged her for a phone number, she never obliged. So, carefully crafted letters would be handed for me to drop off at school. I would hide them on the top of a wall on the far end of our school building where the water fountains were. When he would return to pick me up in the afternoon, there would be a reply waiting for him in that exact same spot. We didn’t know anything about this Mystery Woman except for how she dotted her I’s and crossed her T’s. The bizarre thing was that Bhai Jan was so madly in love that he was content with that.

Those days became one of the most memorable chapters in our sibling relationship. A summer of a secret bond we now shared. Bhai Jan had sent out all his college applications and so letters to a mystery woman was a great way to keep himself busy. On the way to school or in his room, he would repeatedly play the song ‘Samjhana’ by Vital Signs. As we would sit together and sway our bodies to the song, I suddenly felt so grown up. Invited into a world where I had once been too young to step into because ‘No Visitors’ were allowed here. Especially if the visitor was your baby sister.



Even Mama and Baba were confused by this newfound amity between Bhai Jan and I. We would constantly be in each other’s rooms with the doors locked, afternoons spent examining every syllable in her letters as we looked for clues to unearth the identity of our mystery woman. When we would give up, we would stretch back on the floor next to each other, humming along to ‘Samjhana’ over and over again with the curtains drawn and staring at the ceiling till one of us would have another eureka moment.
‘You know what…Let me see her last letter again. I think I’m on to something!’ I would announce with surety channeling my inner Famous Five and Secret Seven.
‘I just thought of something too. Sometimes she capitalizes her L’s and sometimes she doesn’t. She isn’t consistent with that. What do you think that means?’ He too would jump up with childish excitement which resembled my own.

He began to drop and pick me up from school every day. I looked forward to it too. In the car, we would sing along to the same Vital Signs song and in between rewinding and forwarding, we would devise more ways to unmask the Mystery Woman. I cherished my responsibility of being the messenger between the two lovebirds.

At home, we would spend hours with his friends on the floor reading parts of the letter that I was allowed to see. His friends who had only thought of me as an annoying kid before were now encouraging me to put my Nancy Drew skills to work. No longer were they teasing me by snatching my dolls if I ever entered Bhai Jans room but they now relied on me as the mole who had sole access to the mysterious and mystifying world they only fantasized about from the other side of the wall. The world of an all-girls school. And everyday I would enter that turf and return with more clues to confirm or discredit our deductions.
‘Yaar Padash pata karo nay yeh kon hay.’ They would pester me.
‘I’m on it!’ I would roll up my sleeves like a bonafide sleuth.

Vital Signs in the background and crystal plates of French fries and ketchup like a painter’s palette besides us, we would huddle on the floor and come up with our own silly hypothesis. Like the time, we all pooled our pocket money and ran to Jinnah Super on a whim to buy all the different types of pens just to figure out which pen the mystery woman used. Then we argued as we narrowed down our options.
‘Yaar yeh Shaffer ka pen lagta hay…Confirmed! Taste acha hay bhabhi ka.’ A friend would compare her penmanship from the letters.
The next day I would run home from school, still in my school tunic and white shirt to exclaim ‘Mystery solved! Pyaree Saman Apa had a Shaffer pen in her hand today. It has to be her.’

But Bhai Jan was always the voice of reason. He instructed us to not jump to any conclusions. We had to be absolutely certain. And he was right because the letter the next day would be scribed in a Dollar fountain pen. The day after that would be a Piano ballpoint.

Still, all our clues began to point to one person. A girl called Saman Apa. All the young kids in school referred to her as Pyaree Saman Apa, as if the whole school had a lesbian crush on her. It excited me to no end to imagine that she could quite possibly be the Mystery Woman. She was beautiful, the school prefect, always topped her exams, born with perfect long hair, a fair complexion, wore pretty polka dotted hair bands and was always chosen to play the lead in school plays. The teachers adored her as much as the younger kids in school. She greeted everyone with melodious crooning, sweet smiles and perfectly shaped dimples. To naïve 3rd graders like us, she was as close to perfection as we could find in the four walls that contained us. During all-staff meetings, when seniors would be asked to monitor our class we would excitedly cheer whenever Saman Apa entered. She was so glamorous, even her ruler was pink! Surely, we didn’t gush over all our seniors the same way. Some were met with groans and grunts when they entered our class with their rulers. Saman Apa was one of the few lucky ones with the privilege of being referred to as ‘Pyaree’ by us kids. Others too had adjectives but not always as pleasant. Like Badrooh Apa (a scrawny and dark little thing with a high-pitched and nasal voice), or Football Faree Apa (a short and chubby girl who was as bland as her appearance) and then there was a Churail Laila Apa (who some girls claimed had inverted feet like the famed Pichal Pehrees who asked for lifts at Zero Point and then ate their victims). But like Pyaree Saman Apa there was a Pyaree Nadia Baji and also a Pyaree Sadaf Apa. Oh us 3rd graders, we were such losers!

Maybe I was biased, but I was completely convinced that our Mystery Woman was Saman Apa. Or at least I desperately hoped! All the clues led us to believe that. The letters were always on pink paper and everyone in school knew that Pyaree Saman Apa loved that color. Come on, all her hair-bands, scrunchies, bookbag and even her ruler was PINK. So while Baba lectured Bhai Jan everyday to buckle down and get serious about colleges, we ignored every word till he left the room. We had more exciting things to think about. Envelopes with pink hearts and clues took priority over those enclosed with college acceptances or rejections.

‘Padash!’ Bhai Jan would call me into his room elatedly as his friends circled around him on the floor in bad stonewashed jeans and baseball caps ‘Yeh suno. In her last letter, she let it slip that she has been attending a cousins wedding. Find out which Fsc student has a cousin who is getting married.’
‘Its her, its her…I knew it!’ I would declare excitedly the next day as I rushed to the car ‘Pyaree Saman Apa had Mehndi on her hands. Am I good or what!’
‘You’re the best!’ He would hug me!

If there were ever days when there was no letter waiting for my brother, it just so happened that it would also be the day that Saman Apa was absent from school. As far as I knew, the mystery was solved. Now we just had to make her my bhabhi! But Bhai Jan always irked me with his ‘proceed with caution’ attitude!
‘Not yet’ He would burst my bubble and carefully instruct ‘Whatever you do…don’t say anything to her. We don’t want to scare her away.’

I was getting impatient. Saman Apa and I had our own unspoken awareness between us. The furtive nods and the knowing smiles when we would pass each other in school.

Weeks and then months passed. All my brothers college letters had arrived and Baba was getting anxious. Bhai Jan who would never rip open those envelopes with the same excitement with which he would tear open a love letter retrieved from the corner wall of my school, kept avoiding the topic of colleges each time Baba brought it up. Every night Baba would come into his room and ask him if he had picked a university yet and Bhai Jan always came up with some lame excuse of how he was still weighing his options. Baba’s patience was beginning to wear thin. He wanted his son to attend his alma mater in Iowa but the truth was – and only I knew – Bhai Jan had already decided that he was not going to college in America. He planned to marry his Mystery Woman and stay in Pakistan. I approved of the plan wholeheartedly.

By mid-summer, it was time to concoct plans of a way for Bhai Jan to see what Saman Apa looked like. He had heard me go on for hours of how gorgeous she was but naturally he wanted to see for himself. I took his camera to school and then just as conveniently had it confiscated by nosy teachers. Dang! Plan B! Our only other option was the upcoming Annual Day where I could take part in a skit and Bhai Jan could attend as my family member. There he could see Pyaree Saman Apa in the flesh and on the stage. She would definitely be playing the role of a princess and then towards the end, she would always walk on and off stage continuously receiving trophies for her various academic and athletic accomplishments. The only problem with that plan was that our school Annual Day wasn’t till November and Baba’s pressure on Bhai Jan’s college plans were so strong that the way things were going he would have left for college in August. We even sat and brainstormed together to devise a way to convince Baba to allow Bhai Jan to defer his college plans for a year.

As days rolled by, it was getting harder and harder to avoid the college pressure from Baba. By now Bhai Jan was also getting anxious. He was in love with a woman he had never met. We had to come up with another plan, so we did. Sure the Annual Day wasn’t till November but if I auditioned for my class play, I could stay in school past 1pm and it was usually after that hour when Saman Apa left the letter for Bhai Jan in its usual spot. I could catch Saman Apa red handed myself and then I would ask her to at least meet Bhai Jan for one date. Immediately, I signed up for a tableau the next day and auditions were conveniently scheduled for that afternoon. The seniors would not have a clue that a few select 3rd graders were still in school.

On audition day, the few aspiring thespians in the 3rd and 4th grade were assembled in the library at 1pm. The term auditions is used very loosely here because it all boiled down to teachers scrutinizing every girl from head to toe as we sat like cattle on the floor tracing our names with fingers on the carpet or patty-caking ‘Das patay toray, aika pata kacha’ on each other’s backs. The teachers would whisper to each other with squeezed noses as they eyed us. As if purchasing mangoes in Jumma Bazaar, they deliberated over our physical traits in hushed whispers. Then they would reach a consensus on which girl would be perfect for which role. The fair skinned, Pathan girls or the teacher’s daughters were cast in the coveted roles. The dark skinned and chubby girls played the male parts or villains. The ability to act, sing or dance was of no importance here.

So, surrendering to a sea of pretty little girls, I sat through those excruciating auditions like a loyal sister on a mission for her beloved brother. At exactly 1:45pm, when the bell rang, I could see a flock of the Fsc girls walk by the windows of the library. All the different Apas talking animatedly amongst each other, flicking their long hair with their hands, some even with engagement rings on their fingers. That was my cue.
‘Madam can I go drink some water?’ I raised my hand.
‘Padash its “May I” and yes you may. Hurry back.’ The teacher corrected me.

With my head spinning with excitement, I rushed out of the library, making my way briskly towards the water fountains. I followed Pyaree Saman Apa, as her back glided through the school, her long hair swaying in the wind and her pink book-bag slung elegantly on her shoulder. She was headed straight for the water fountain. She approached the fountain, took a sip of water and then kept on walking. I was confused and for a second I even wondered if the Mystery Woman was not my beloved Pyaree Saman Apa. Still, I followed her with my eyes as she walked further and further away and then vanished around the corner. Strange, I thought but when I turned my eyes back at the water fountains, I spotted Football Fari making her nervously way to the wall. Just like me, even her eyes were fixed on Saman Apa. When Saman Apa was nowhere in sight, she reached into her bag and pulled out a pink envelope. Looking around one last time, she made sure that no one was watching but soon found out that someone was. Our eyes met, and as I saw a look of shock and fear in her eyes she probably saw disappointment and betrayal in mine. She was obviously startled to see me but I didn’t care. Then, just as quickly I spun around and dashed back to the library.

‘You look like you have just seen a ghost!’ my friend Zara asked me when I settled back next to her.
‘Something like it. ‘ I fought back tears.
‘They gave us our roles while you were gone.’ Zara informed me.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
But although I heard her voice it fell on deaf ears. Meaningless din in the background as I stared ahead.
She continued ‘I am a flower…most of us were chosen to be flowers….well Aliya from 3A is playing the Rose Princess and Shela from 3A is playing The Summer Breeze. But you know girls in 3A always get the best parts. I think they said you were going to play the part of the Giant Spider. At least its different than a flower. You know…you will stand out than the rest of us.’ Great! So that’s what they meant by insult to injury!

That afternoon, I walked out of the gate like a zombie with no idea how I was going to disclose the news to my brother. It was all my fault. It was I, who had raised his hopes so high. Going on and on about how his Mystery Woman was the most beautiful girl on this planet. But in reality it was the fat girl whose life seemed insipid and colorless. Bhai Jan was leaning against the car with his sunshades on like always. Without as much as a salutation, I slid into the car and without a word, he too sat down on the drivers seat. I was dreading his excited questions.
‘I guess our plan backfired!’ He sighed dejectedly as he started the car ‘I know she didn’t come to school today…I checked and there was no letter.’
‘There wasn’t?’
‘No… did you see Saman in school at all today?’
‘No…I didn’t…you’re right.’
‘All that planning for nothing! This is just stupid. Maybe I should just go home, pick a university, make Baba happy and start packing. Its all pretty stupid if you really think about it.’
‘Yeah…I guess you’re right.’ I surprised him with my equally pessimistic response.
‘Sorry you had to suffer through the auditions because of me…did they select you for anything?’
‘Yes…a giant spider. All the other girls are playing roses and tulips.’
‘No way’ Bhai Jan chuckled ‘Your Saman Apa owes you an apology. This is all because of her you know. Chalo let me buy you some ice cream.’
‘I don’t want any.’ I replied. And when the song ‘Samjhana’ wafted through the stereo, we both cringed just a little. He immediately switched it off.
‘Sorry, I’m just getting a little tired of this song.’ He remarked.
‘So am I.’

That afternoon, Bhai Jan came into the lounge with his friends quite a few times to cheer me up as I watched my cartoons.
‘Motoo, you don’t have to play the spider. I have a brilliant idea! We can forge a doctor’s note or something and say that you won’t be able to attend rehearsals.’ He ruffled my hair.
‘I’m fine, I’ll play the spider, I really don’t care.’ I pushed his arm away.
‘We’re heading out to the Covered Market. Do you want anything? Super Crisps? Jubilee? Frost?’
‘No…I’m fine…just let me watch my cartoons.’
I couldn’t really tell what it was that I felt. Disappointment? Anger? It felt like a fairy-tale dream yesterday had turned into a disappointing nightmare today. That and I didn’t know how to break that news to Bhai Jan. I decided to avoid the topic by avoiding him altogether.

It only got worse after that. There was no letter for Bhai Jan the next day. Or the day after. In fact an entire week passed and although Bhai Jan sent a letter with me everyday, there was never a reply waiting for him. He was now worried and quite visibly upset, yet each time he asked me, I told him that I had no idea. On the other end, Baba’s patience with Bhai was now wearing extremely thin. Every night there would be an argument between the two. The more Baba pressured Bhai Jan to pick a college before it was too late, the more Bhai Jan remained obdurate. He was now determined more than ever to not leave the country till he found out who his Mystery Woman was. One night, after witnessing a huge argument between my father and my brother, I stood in Bhai Jan’s doorway staring at his Madonna poster. He looked completely broken but when he saw me he immediately asked the same question he had already asked a million times before.
‘Are you sure your Saman Apa has been coming to school these days?’
I couldn’t believe it. It was almost as if he had ignored every word that had come out of Baba’s mouth. It was also the first time I had seen the face of someone blinded by love.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ I replied.
‘Then why isn’t she replying to any of my letters? What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘I mean what do you think…’
‘What I think is that you should move on and forget about her.’
‘Wow’ he looked at me with amazement ‘My baby sister sounds more grown up than I do.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I cant Padash, I’m in love!’ It was the first time I heard the words on my brothers lips. It was also the first time, I saw tears in his eyes.
‘I don’t think its her Bhai Jan…’
‘Why…you were so sure before…’
‘I was….but I was being stupid….I have been giving it a lot of thought and I really don’t think its her.’
‘Well who else could it be then? Who hasn’t been coming to school this whole week. That’s our answer right there…’
‘Bhai Jan…listen to me….you’re not listening to what I’m saying. Its over. I think its time you forgot about her and pick a college. Baba is very serious.’
I couldn’t bear to look Bhai Jan in the eyes. I just turned around and retreated back to my room. I had betrayed my Bhai Jan.

Two weeks later, Bhai Jan came into the house as I was watching my afternoon cartoons still in my school uniform. He looked absolutely shattered as he walked across the lounge and stomped towards his room. I didn’t dare ask what was wrong because over the past two weeks, neither of us had brought up the Mystery Woman.
‘I’m going to go take a nap.’ He announced ‘If anyone calls…or if Mama Baba ask…just tell them, I’m not feeling well. Don’t let anyone disturb me.’
I nodded with my eyes still fixed on the screen. A few seconds later I heard his door shut, the lock clicked.

The phone rang, an hour later. It was Bhai Jan’s friend insisting I wake him up even though I tried to tell him that I had strict instructions to not disturb him from his sleep.
‘Padash yaar…please just tell him its me…I really need to speak to him…I need to find out what happened today. Do you know?’
‘He hasn’t said anything… just said not to wake him up. You will have to call back later.’
‘Aray Chotoo…just tell him its me. I was supposed to meet him at Usmania but he had already left when I got there…I need to find out what happened.’
‘Mustafa bhai, he was very serious when he said that he did not want to be woken up. Just call back later na.’
‘Try to karo Padash. Please Chotoo.’
‘Fine.’ I sighed and walked cautiously to Bhai Jan’s room. The room which was once off-limits, then became a regular hangout for me and was now reduced to a dark and dismal chamber with the lights dimmed, the curtains drawn. I knocked a fewhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif times before I heard his disgruntled voice.
‘Bhai Jan its Mustafa bhai…I told him you were sleeping but he keeps on insisting that I….’
‘Just tell him I’ll call him back when I wake up.’
I said no more and obediently relayed that message back to his friend. The friend thanked me for trying and promised me a candy bar the next day.

When Bhai Jan finally emerged from his room, his eyes were red. In his hand was an envelope which he handed over to Baba. He informed us that he had completed his college paperwork and Baba was ecstatic because he had chosen his alma mater. Only I knew, that Bhai Jan was doing this so he could leave Islamabad and all its memories. At the end of that memorable summer, Bhai Jan packed up and left for college. Dejected and heartbroken, he was probably ready for a new beginning. Before leaving, he held me tight and told me that he was glad that we had become so close that summer. He made me promise I would write to him and continue to share all my secrets. He also promised me he would never let anyone break my heart. We never mentioned the Mystery Woman to each other ever again to this day. I didn’t even know what happened that afternoon at Usmania.

‘He met her that afternoon.’ His friend informed me many years later. On a chilly night in an apartment in New Jersey. As Bhai Jan’s friend and I lay naked with unwashed bed-sheets covering our naked bodies. Sharing a cigarette after having just made love.
I listened quietly.
‘After weeks of pleading and begging, the girl finally agreed to meet your brother at that restaurant. I was supposed to meet him there afterwards but when I got there, he had already left. That’s why I was calling like crazy that day.’
‘So he got to meet her?’
‘Yes….but it wasn’t that Apa that you thought she was…some detectives we were.’
‘I know…’
‘Frankly, I still don’t know who it was. Never really got to see her…but at least your brother met her, which is more important.’
‘Did he say anything about her?’
‘Not much, just that he was madly in love with her… so I guess she must have been beautiful if he still felt that way after meeting her.’
‘Her name was Fari.’
‘Well whoever she was, she broke his heart pretty badly that day? When they met she told him that it was all just a prank to her. She had never thought he would get so serious. She came from some conservative family and begged him not to send a proposal or do anything silly. She said she was just having fun and was pretending to be another prettier girl in school. I was very angry but he said he didn’t care, he still loved her. He told her that too. And that he still wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Your literally begged her yaar. He even said that if there was as much as a slight chance that they could be together in the future, he was willing to give up college, stay in Islamabad and wait for her for as long as it took. But she really messed up, she had no idea things would get so out of control or that he would fall so madly in love with her. What did she look like, this Fari girl? Must have been drop dead gorgeous for him to act like that.’
‘She was to my brother, I guess…but back then I was too young and stupid to understand how love works.’
‘Love shove. its all stupid filmy stuff!’ Mustafa rolled over and fell asleep.

But I couldn’t sleep. I lay there next to him staring at the ceiling. Where had our journeys began, where were they intersecting and where would they end. I quietly crept out of bed and picked up Mustafa’s Rutgers sweatshirt off the floor. Tiptoeing over to his window with nothing on but his grey college hoodie, I sat down on the sill, pulled the sweatshirt over my legs and lit up another cigarette. I stared out at his college campus while Mustafa slept peacefully behind me, his face soaked in moonlight.

In the window’ reflection I could see myself. Although my brother and I have never looked alike, that night I saw only him in my mirror image. Bhai Jan’s face and how it looked the night I saw what someone blinded by love looks like. I looked exactly like that.

My Bhai Jan didn’t teach me much but he did teach me my first lesson about love and heartbreak.

I finished my cigarette and slid quietly back into bed with Mustafa who was now snoring.

If only I had listened…

Just One of Life’s Many Tests!!!

Senior year of high school or the second year of your A-levels is a memorable time. A rite of passage, full of anticipation and fear, surety and uncertainty. Rebelling and conforming. A junction in life where we finally get to bid farewell to our present as well as our past and to embark on an exciting new journey. A journey that leads to a FUTURE the way we dreamt it. And as we desperately wait, we nervously also dread that exact same junction. The uncertainty of saying goodbye to a familiar present, the hesitation of embarking on an unchartered journey. A time of change….and waiting for change. Ending one era and starting a brand new one. One last year of dependence before a lifetime of independence. Fully aware that this life of both comfort and discomfort will never be the same once we board that plane and head off to college. Clutching on to our safety-belts we eagerly wait for what lies ahead. Decisions made on this year form the trajectory of years to come. Some refer to it as their long awaited escape (me), some simply view it as finally being able to return home (Peanut), some call it planning for the future while some are just following plans carefully charted out by their fathers. Plans, plans, plans. Mine was on a pizzeria napkin, for some it was on the back of a US News and World Report book and for some it was simply memorized words of expectations from patriarchs. A year when we are faced with some of life’s most important decisions, choices and tests. One of those just happens to be the Scholastic Aptitude Test. Or more commonly known in school corridors as the ‘bloody Ess – Ayyy- Teees!’

Why Yes!

The first time I ever gave those three alphabets any thought, was when a shttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifenior slammed her thick SAT prep book in front of me. Jolting me back from a daydream of emancipated days in an American College, she was happy to remind me of a roadblock in those fading pen lines on a cherished napkin Alisha and I had once sketched my ‘escape’ plan on.
‘Have fun!’ she smirked and then with an equally sardonic laugh, she sauntered out of our school gates. She was hours away from boarding a plane to a much awaited liberal arts lifestyle. Me? I was still daydreaming. And her caustic exit taunted me because she had already crossed the bridge that I had yet to trudge on. The SATs were the first step!

A step that managed to put a damper in all our excited planning for escapes and futures. A three letter rain on our parade, in you will. Discussions of dorm room parties, shaving our heads, having threesomes and staying out without curfews were now suddenly replaced with vocabulary questions, math equations and crihttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.giftical reading sections.
‘Just one more year of this hell hole’ Peanut used to say.
‘And then we can move abroad.’ I would reply.
‘And live life on our own terms.’ We would chorus.
‘As long as we can get these damn SATs taken care of.’ was now also added to our comfort chant!

Suddenly, it was not rare to walk into the common room to find a classmate engrossed in their colorful SAT prep book.
‘Why would you use the word ‘Pusillanimous’ when you can just say cowardly?’ They would ask a very poignant question with marked frustration.
‘What the hell did you just call me?’ The other would bark!

Ah the good old SAT books. Quite possibly the worst gift, I have received from a senor in high school. A book that was only good for two things, migraines and bigger biceps. Page after page of sample tests, high frequency vocabulary words and amorphous shapes of geometry that only reminded us of how stupid we really were.

Sweet Dreams and Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles were now replaced with SAT prep books tucked under our arms. The overly ambitious ones even started to insert cumbersome yet antiquated words into their everyday jargon.
‘Yaar my driver has still not come to pick me up he is itnaaa indolent, ufff ab I am so truculent abhi!’ One would remark.
‘Benchod malefactor kaheen ka.’ Her boyfriend would reply.

It was also quite common to start noticing the geometrical shapes that our teacher’s faces were suddenly beginning to resemble. Urdu teachers were hexagons, English teachers were usually square-shaped and the Business Management teachers were always…and I mean always round. Don’t ask me why, it was just a probability theory Peanut and I came up with.

On some days our discourse was even reduced to multiple choice options.
‘Hey yaar what do you want from the canteen?
a. Coke
b. Chilli Chips
c. Samosa
d. All of the above’
But alas, the SATs were never that easy.

Sometimes we even took the traditional stab at group study. Some success that turned out to be! I remember going over to Peanut’s Flat after school to make flash cards of archaic words that we would never use once the test was over. We even pondered if these words were really part of everyday vernacular on American streets. Once I got here I realized the truth about American English; ‘bad’ meant good, ‘mugging’ meant glaring and ‘broke’ meant impecunious. Anyway, Peanut and I would barely get through 15 minutes of a math question or a paragraph from reading comprehension before we would find ourselves engaged in school gossip for the next three hours. The fault wasn’t ours. Studying for the SATs gave rise to excitement of going to college and moving abroad. Instead of vocab and math equations we would then end up fantasizing about parties, boyfriends, dorm rooms and roommates. Before you knew it, it was time to go home and we had made absolutely no progress on preparing for THE test which would be the only way those dreams of ours could come true. You see, to ‘move abroad and live life on our own terms’, we had to pass the SATs first.

A few weeks before the dreaded SATs, Muzna entered the common room with a stack of glossy black envelopes. They were invitations for a dance party on the night the darn test ended. She flipped through them before handing me the one with my name on it.
‘Someone just dropped these off with the chowkidar! Seems like there is a party that night and we’re invited!’ She exclaimed.
When I pulled out a card from the envelope, I discovered that some girl who went to ISAS was throwing a party. I say ‘some girl’ because I had no idea who she was or how she got my name. But - like most of the time during my A-levels - I would find myself on guest lists and invitations on parties by strangers I had never heard of. High school parties had a weird culture back in the 90s. Since I had attended parties with Alisha whose name was a common fixture on invite lists, I soon began to find myself invited to parties just because and all of a sudden, I was considered a fairly ‘cool’ girl (debatable I’m sure) who attended parties. And the more I went, the more I got invited! It was a sign of utter popularity in Islamabad’s high school world when you were invited to parties of other high schools by people you didn’t know. And although I should have been flattered – and I may sound cocky for saying this now – I was so used to it by then, it didn’t even matter.
‘This will be perfect, my parents are visiting my brother in Dubai so I can stay out past my curfew!’ I fanned my face with the invite.
‘I know, we take our SATs earlier that day so this will be a much-needed celebration. Uff Yaar, I haven’t even opened the book.’ Muzna replied.
‘What do you care….Daddy’s paying full tuition at any college…you won’t have trouble getting accepted anywhere.’
Muzna’s smile confirmed my statements veracity!

Then there was Wardah. The smartest of us all. And by smart, I don’t meant SAT-smart. That girl actually believed that England and the United Kingdom were two different countries. However, rumors were flying around school that she had paid one of the school geeks to take the SATs for her. The geek in question was Mohid; a bit of a loner with acne often competing with his dandruff. He adorned the quintessential spectacles and seduced Macro-Economics teachers with insightful questions about supply and demand while the rest of us rolled our eyes. He had already taken the SATs and on top of that he has also managed to score a 1330. Probably the only time, any of us ever spoke to him or may have even envied him. During a failed study session at the Flat after school, Peanut rolled up a joint for ‘good measure’ and discussed this latest, SATastic gossip in school.
‘How can Mohid take the SATs for someone else?’ I dismissed the lies.
‘Because he’s getting paid. And I’m not talking just money. Rumor has it, Wardah has not only offered to take him to the ISAS party that night as his date but some say she has even offered to let him feel her boobs at the party.’
‘That’s just BS…there is no way that’s possible!’
‘Why not….every other male in school has groped them. Well except for me of course.’
‘But she’s a girl and he’s a guy….’
‘Yeah it’s called heterosexuality! Unfortunately for me it’s quite common in this world!’
‘That’s not what I meant….I mean how can he pass for a girl during the SATs. Don’t they ask for IDs? They must have some system in place! Does Mohid realize that he can get caught and jeopardize his entire future.’
‘Well we already know she isn’t the brightest tube-light in the world but as for Mohid…I guess some men are desperate enough to gamble their futures for a quick feel of some Cha-Chas. Can I borrow yours?’
I slapped Peanuts head with a pillow but not before looking down to admire my own breasts. They were twice the size of Wardah’s…and for a second, I wondered if I too could put them to work for a 1300 SAT score!’

There were also some of us who were actually studying. Students with their noses buried deep in their SAT books and not using party invites as bookmarks. One afternoon, Peanut sat in the common room doodling on his SAT book while I sat next to him writing down the lyrics to ‘My Sharona’ from a dying walkman. Suddenly Metro Milan Agarbatti decided to sit down next to us. Ok, so obviously Metro Milan Agarbatti was not his real name. His real name consisted of the initials, MMA which he would often pen at the end of all his assignments and even on some bathroom walls with hero-maar calligraphy. Somewhere along the way, kids began to make fun of him and referring to him as MMA: Metro Milan Agarbatti. The name suited him like a glove and then just stuck like white on rice. An extremely skinny boy with a terrible mullet MMA often commuted to school on a wagon from Pindi. His most discerning physical features were his fixed-by-scotch-tape spectacles, his bony frame and an exceptionally dark complexion. The boy literally looked like an agarbatti. We never quite understood how he ended up at UCI or even in his A-levels, where his thick accent and bad grammar were often mocked and ridiculed by his burger peers. I may feel bad for him now but back then we didn’t blink twice before referring to him as Metro Milan – sometimes even to his face.

‘Studying hard.’ His flashed a wide smile at Peanut as he sat down besides us.
Peanut shot me a disgusted look, as I tried hard not to laugh. As I shoved my face deeper into my book to stifle my giggles, Peanut took that as encouragement to pursue his mockery of MMA.
‘So Metro Milan are you taking the SATs too?’
‘Yes….Standurr test….’
‘Oh yes…..Standurrrrr test…how’s the prep going?’ Peanut imitated his accent and I turned blue holding back my giggles.
‘Intrusting questions…verbal is difficult…but Math is no problems.’
I was now going insane from controlling my laughing and Peanut was enjoying every minute of it.
‘Oh no problems I’m sure….very intrusting subject.’
‘I am nervous about Toefel you know.’
‘Oh of course…so stressed out about the Toefel.’ Peanut egged on.
‘I have been studying very hard only.’
‘I’m sure you have been. What are you aiming for?’
‘Well if you set a high aim, you do not feel bad if it is less.’
‘And what’s your aim?’
‘550….a little high but I like setting high aims.’
Peanut who had already gotten a perfect score on Toefel emitted a sarcastic smile and said…’550 should be no problems.’
At that point, I couldn’t bear it any more and burst into hysterics. I ran out of the common room and Peanut dashed after me, We ran all the way to the other end of the school and spent the next half hour catching our breaths and laughing hysterically like the bullies that we had become. Later that day, when we saw him again, we still couldn’t hold back our giggles. Metro Milan Agarbatti just shot us an uncomfortable smile ‘You two are very naughty…I think.’

The day of the test finally arrived on a brisk, cool Islamabad morning. We arrived at the Marriott hotel more worried about our outfits than the critical reading sections or the probability and algebra questions we had suffered through for the past few weeks. Kids from all the other schools of Islamabad were there and for teens with raging hormones image is more important than a standardize test score. Looking our best didn’t necessarily entail dressing like bimbos though trust me there were plenty of those too. It was just an effort to look different. To look like a rebel. To fit in by standing out. While some lathered on dark eye makeup and glared through nose-rings and clip-on lip-rings to appear angry and gothic, there were also those that sat in the corner with their walkmans apathetic to the questions they were going to expect. Some skimmed through the books still determined to chase their Ivy League dreams. And as we walked into a hotel where we had walked through a million times to go dancing at Muddys on a Saturday night, today we weren’t going to a discothèque. However judging by some of the outfits, you could have fooled me. Still, we were there to take the most important test of our lives. When we found familiar faces we flocked straight to our groups of friends. Guys checked out girls. Girls secretly flirted with guys. Some just watched at this strange burger world from the periphery – the men intrigued and seduced by the girls who rolled their eyes back at them. Aware of the spotlight, the burgers performed for this lustful audience even more. The girls accentuated their physical contact with their male friends. For some it was rare to see guys and girls high-five, hug and joke so openly. Although most still freaked out about the test, it seemed like everyone was more interested in the ISAS party that night. Who was invited? Who wasn’t? What were we to wear? What lie and excuse were we to give our parents? Who was picking up who, who was dropping who? Who needed a girl since most parties back then were a couples only affair in order to keep the stags away. Nights planned around each others curfews and fabricated stories of sleepovers at friends. Guys made sure their girlfriends found a way to get there so they could make out. Girls reminded them how hard it would be to escape overly protective and strict parents. Swear words chorused in the lobby of a landmark hotel where I too stood and laughed with my friends. We were slightly shocked to see Mohid approach our group.
‘Mohid….what the hell are you doing here?’ I asked him ‘Didn’t you already ace the SATs. Or are you trying to get a better score?’
‘Sssh’ He winked at me ‘My name is Wardah today!’
Peanut and I just looked at each other and laughed. The pep in his step confirmed that he too was looking forward to the party that night like the rest of us!

The test came and went. Girls sashayed around the hall in their rehearsed catwalks and men followed them with their eyes full of lust. And as these men ogled with hungry eyes, they anticipated college life even more when girls and sex would both be easy. Once the test ended we all poured out into the parking lot hugging each other and rejoicing over the fact that it was finally over. Some discussed questions while most were just glad to be done. Now it was time to make plans. Outside, expensive cars blasted music as we jumped in and out laughing and high-fiving. Later, we all piled into different cars and whizzed off to Hot Spot for a celebratory ice cream. The entire time, aware of the non-member audience who followed us with intrigued eyes.

That night we partied past our curfews in rebellion. For me, it was easy because Mama and Baba were out of town. As far as they knew, I was sleeping over at a friends. And to be fair, it was the truth. The gender of this friend just happened to be male –a minor detail I had omitted. But in my defense once again, the male was Peanut. I was as safe as spending the night at a girl’s house. Literally! I got dressed that night in a white blouse and black leather pants. My frizzy hair that had gotten quite long by then were parted in the middle and with only a pack of cigarettes and the invite, I was as ready as I could be. Peanut picked me up with his driver and we headed straight to a party where we danced all night.
‘The SATs are finally over love.’
‘Brings us that much closer to moving abroad.’
‘And then we can finally live life on our own terms.’

In a way, the night and the party offered us a promise. We had done our part. We had taken the first step on the bridge to our escape. No longer just a bunch of spoilt rich brats dancing to pop music in the middle of a living room with bad strobe lighting and fog machines. We were high school seniors ready to graduate and start a new chapter in our lives. A chapter we had only witnessed through Pulse Global videos, flipped pages of paperbacks and glossy magazines or through shows on our Dish Antenna. Although we had a few weeks till our scores arrived in the mail, tonight we were just going to celebrate getting closer to our dreams. The song ‘Alane’ by Wes was thumping through the drawing room discotheque when I left the dance floor for some fresh air. Peanut’s dancing skills were raved about throughout the school so he always had a line of eager females ready to dance with him. I figured it was time to stop being greedy and let the others enjoy his slick moves. He could relish the female attention while I took a walk outside.



I lit up a cigarette and strolled through the perfectly manicured lawn of that large and fancy bungalow of F10-4. Ar a time in our lives when it was a sin to ever be spotted alone…especially at a party, I walked by myself and breathed in the moment as I looked around. Everyone had the same sparkle of excitement in their eyes. Something told me that we were all going to remember this night. The night we took our SATs. And as we laughed and giggled, swayed and wiggled, one thing was for sure, high school was ending. The present was quickly becoming the past. The future…OUR future…was just around the corner. I smoked my cigarette on a chair by myself, smiling as I observed my peers. Muzna was leaning against a tree, her body moving in rhythm to the exotic beats while her entourage of girls circled around her like moths hungering for her nimbus. Surprisingly, she did fairly well on her SATs when the scores arrived. She was accepted to UPenn and although, we were excited to meet up in Philly on my breaks, we never really hung out like we imagined we would. Apart from a few coffee dates at Xandos at 12th and Walnut, we barely connected in the States after my freshman year. After graduation, she returned home, married a banker and is now raising two lovely kids. Always a little plump, she gained some more weight and every now and then we run into each other when I’m home and in a matter of minutes we catch up on our lives through small talk. She became the Begum we all thought she would and the girls who surrounded her the night of the party, followed a similar trajectory in life too. Husbands, kids and country-club high-teas. The last time I ran into her was at a wedding. It was amusing how the sight of her was no different than what I saw at the party that night. She stood in the middle, leaning against a pillar as women enveloped her with eager eyes. On the night of the party they all wore jeans and blouses, years later they were doing the same in Saris.

Gossip flew (and Peanut shared) that Mohid got to feel not one but two boobs at the party. In fact Mohid and Wardah ended up making out on more than one occasions even after that night was over. The night of the party, I saw them emerging from a dimly lit make-out room upstairs. Although people thought it was random for a nerdy guy like Mohid to be holding Wardah’s hand that night, few knew the actual deal. This nerd had used his brains to literally score, pardon the pun, not just a 1330 on his own SATs but also second base before he left for college. He had earned it. And although Wardah may have looked uncomfortable that night, it turned out to be worthy investment for her too. When the scores arrived Wardah was ecstatic and Mohid was slightly irked. The rest of the school couldn’t stop talking. A girl who couldn’t get more than an 800 on her sample SAT tests, had score a 1400 on her SATs. It probably pinched Mohid when he wrote 1330 on his own college apps while Wardah penciled in 1400. I should mentione though that Wardah never completed her degree. One winter, when I was home from college, I heard that she had taken a year off from school to deal with ‘homesickness.’ The year turned into two and then she just never returned back to finish her degree. It doesn’t really matter because she too is married now and her husband probably provides for her and their kids in exchange for a feel of her breasts at night. Some things never change, I guess. Mohid did finish his degree and went on to get some more. Not exactly sure what he’s doing, but I do know that he married a goree that he met in college. According to Peanut, they had wedding receptions both in the States and in Pakistan.

From where I sat smoking my cigarette, I could see the dance floor and Peanut was right in the middle going from one girl to the next. His T-shirt was drenched in sweat but he loved the attention. Years later, I would see him move the same way but shirtless and at a dance club in Chelsea when he came to visit me. He too did fairly well on his SATs. In fact, he was one of the few kids in our class, who got accepted to their dream school. St. Martin’s in his hometown London where he got to study art. It was his wish and also revenge for his business oriented father. His lanky frame was replaced by a chiseled, gym body. After a brief stint at Sotheby’s, he is currently the curator of an independent art gallery in Soho and continues to date wealthy older men who pamper him but those flings rarely last because just like myself, he too isn’t ready to settle down. If we are both single by the age of 40, we have promised to live together like the Golden Girls.

Me, well you all know how I turned out! And will continue to know as you read my columns. The only thing worth mentioning is that my SAT scores were quite terrible. And to this day, my family believes that I got a 1220. I hid the scores when they arrived and then lied. Hey if Wardah can get a guy to take the test for her, I sure could manage to get a nerd to make me a fake score-sheet! ;)

That night at the party, I didn’t just think about the people around me. I even thought of those that were not there. Who had not been considered ‘cool’ enough to have been invited to the weekend’s happening dance party. Those who I had seen earlier that day at the large auditorium in Marriott watching us from he periphery. People like Metro Milan Agarbatti. I think the only time, he ever got to see a dance floor or dance next to a girl was at our Farewell later that year. Even on that night, I probably only thought of him for a few seconds before returning to the dance floor. He never had plans to go abroad for college and his future plans had very little to do with flying across the world. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford and never entertained as a thought either. Yet he did quite well on his SATs. A few months later, he was accepted to LUMS and IBA. He ended up going to LUMS where he was probably treated no differently than how we was treated at our school but then again none of us knew how our futures would really turn out. That he would go on to become a successful Chartered Accountant. He now makes more than all of us and travels the world, staying in five star hotels of cities that are yet to be checked off on our bucket lists. He married a cousin of his, and by her facebook pics she seems quite pretty. The smile on her face in those same pics, confirms that she has no issues with his agarbatti looks. Quite often on his travels, he passes through New York. Once, I even agreed to meet up with him for an hour at a Starbucks. After we said goodbye, I walked back to work with a smile. He still spoke with that same thick accent we often mocked. And someone at his job probably still refers to him as Metro Milan Agarbatti. They probably still secretly giggle in business meetings when he makes grammatical gaffes like uttering ‘No Problems’. But now as our futures have become our present, did any of that really matter? No.

Just like the SATs, I would one day take my GREs and several other tests and exams. I have never been and never will be a fan of standardized tests. I think they are pointless. But I will agree with one thing. The SATs are probably still the most important test in your life. I learned a lot from them too. Not from the test itself, or the critical reading section or the algebraic equations or the hour spent circling the best option with a Number 2 pencil in a large air-conditioned Shadee Hall at Marriott. I learned from the experience of taking the SATs with my classmates. And the lives that unfolded after. The SATs taught me a lot about life and the future that lay ahead after you walk out of that hall. You laugh with friends outside you who think will always be a part of your lives. You plan for a party you think determines your worth in this world. You snicker at people you think will be as insignificant in the future as they appear now in the periphery. But only time is able to tell that the future can actually prove us wrong!

If there are any readers who are talking their SATs, GRE’s or any important test in the near future. I certainly don’t envy you. But I do wish you the BEST of LUCK! You never know. You may learn something!

Homeless Hoes!!!

I once worked as a stripper. One of the many confessions which deem my past sordid enough to receive the barrage of emails from readers who tell me I’m going straight to hell. Well, at least I have guaranteed VIP access somewhere! And although I had initially wanted to write a piece on my experiences as a stripper, I decided to take a few steps back and write about the equally sordid odd jobs I did before my debut as Rosa the Latina Firecracker on a Pole. I don’t mean odd like waitress, sales clerk or even janitor. I mean jobs truly, truly odd like naked housecleaner (hence taking my clothes off for money was already on my resume when I applied for the stripper position), a masseuse specialized in the art of Indian Massage (don’t ask me what that is, I made it up because it paid my bills) and a nude art model (clearly my resume was stretching into a CV with such vast experience in nudity). But then I thought, I should probably take a minute to explain why a spoilt, rich daddy’s girl needed to work such odd jobs in the first place or any jobs for that matter. The simple answer would be because it was the summer of 2001 in the city of Philadelphia. One of the best summers of my life and my favorite cities in the world. But more specifically it was just one night that ignited it all. A night in May when I found myself homeless, penniless and clueless on the streets of Philly. Trying my best to not write as long-windedly as I talk, I’m going to write about just that particular night for now. But down, down boys, there will be plenty of opportunities to write about Padash’s work history in sleaze. Let me first lay the foundation of how it all fell into place. Shall we proceed?

Why Yes!

Sophomore year. It had ended just as perfectly as it had started. Life was great and I couldn’t have been happier. Great friends like Julie and Jenny, a great social life and boy did I look my best. Most of all, I was doing everything I had always dreamt of. Examples:
A) Club hopping: I now had a fake ID thanks to a cousin in Pakistan. Ghetto pieces of paper stapled together with the year 1977 printed next to random Urdu but what bouncer knows what a Pakistani driver’s license is supposed to look like. With protein shakes substituting brains, they dumbly stared at it for five minutes, turned it around a few times and then pulled away the velvet rope to beckon me in. They probably spent the next few minutes wondering if Pakistan was that small town near Texas.
B) Bed-Hopping: I was a beast on a journey of sexual exploration. I don’t really know how or why but I had begun to slowly loose weight in my A-levels. By the time I started college, I was loosing the freshman 15 rather than gaining it. Like a snake, I was shedding layer after layer of skin every week. Encouraged by people who noticed my body, I immediately enrolled in every fitness class on campus. Dance, yoga, spinning…you name it, I was there to sweat. Pretty soon, I was voted the top 5 hottest girls on campus by 5 of the 6 fraternities. The 6th frat voted me as the eighth hottest but then again the expertise of those judges was always questionable. Let’s just say that frat was rumored to be more interested in each other than girls. You know the kind: secretly think about jocks to perform for a cheerleader in bed. Anyway, those of you who have faithfully read my earlier columns know that I didn’t grow up with a lot of self esteem. I would never call myself ugly but I sure was 180 degrees away from sexy. Now all of a sudden, I was desired, chased and fantasized about. The feeling sure was addictive and I realized why friends like Aliya craved such attention. Walking into a room and being soaked in lustful stares. Noticing heads turn from the corner of your eye. Abrupt silence my compliments, curious whispers my praise. Sigh!

My plans for the summer were going to be just as perfect. It was all planned out. I was going to take a pottery class at Moore College of Art in Philadelphia and stay with my friend Donna and her boyfriend in his apartment on South Street. We would party and get drunk every night with underground drummers, guitarists and vocalists. Dad’s permission? Sure, I had to pull a few strings and dig deep into my bag of tricks but I had managed to accomplish challenges way more impossible than this. The fee for the class wasn’t the issue for my Baba but leaving his girl alone in Philly was a whole different story altogether. So first, I made sure to enroll in the class before he found out that my Khala who lived in Philly (hereby referred to as Khala 1) had already planned to leave for Pakistan a week after the class started. Once Baba found out, I acted just as surprised but made sure to share a feasible alternative (crafted long ago) before he even suggested a refund from Moore.
‘I can stay with my Muslim friend Aisha and her Muslim mother in their Muslim apartment in Philly!’
In truth, I knew no one called Aisha but the part of Aisha and her Muslim mother was played diligently by Donna and her older sister on the phone. It was quite easy really, the sister was instructed to begin every other sentence with the word “Akhee” and end with “Mash-a-Allah” and by the end of the phone call Baba was convinced that I was in safe hands.

A little about Donna’s boyfriend now. His name was Bo, a member of an underground band and sported just as many tattoos as piercings. A fact, which Donna’s catholic stepmother disapproved of. Still, the two had carried on a long-distance relationship ever since they had met and hooked up at a dive bar where his band had performed and Donna had immediately slid into the role of groupie and then girlfriend. She was now going to make up for the long-distance part of their relationship by spending three months living with him. She and I had known each other only a few days when she asked me to join her for a summer of debauchery and there was no way I could decline. It sounded like too much fun; live rent-free and be surrounded by cute boys in tight girl-jeans and dyed hair. Where do I sign up? To top it all off, I even had an offer from another friend to stop over in Paris for a week on my way home to Pakistan. She was a friend from A-levels who was going to be there at exactly the same time to study French history at the Sorbonne. She had painted a very enticing picture and I had immediately begun to fanaticize about eating crepes under the Arc de Triomphe, shopping at designer stores in Champs Elysees and hopefully meet a dashing Frenchman who would make love to me by the Seine. Enchante Monsieur!

I arrived in Philly exactly a week after finals. From 30th Street Station I headed straight to Khala 1’s house in Bucks County. I was only to spend a week there but it was going to be the longest week of my life. You see, Khala 1 and her family live a very different life from mine. They run a local Dunkin Donuts with another partner and often forego unaffordable luxuries that I view as basic necessities. Their two young daughters obediently gave up their room to my highness and while my Khala and her husband spent most of their day at the shop, I spent my days lazing around. I would crawl out of bed somewhere around noon; just in time for a leisurely shower, hop on the Septa train to attend my one-hour class at Moore and then meet up with Donna and Bo in Center City. Later, I would reluctantly bid them farewell as they headed off to a bar and arrive back to Khala 1’s house at a ‘decent’ time but always with a different shopping bag in my hand. I would barely eat the food in front and retire to my room with snobbery because I truly couldn’t wait for the week to end so I could move in with Donna and Bo and party without restrictions. Baba had given me a thousand bucks for the summer, which was more than enough considering I had no rent to pay and the class was already paid for. The grand would merely be used as spending cash for clothes, a few meals, cigarettes, drinks (though men usually bought us those) and club covers. For the week in Paris, he had arranged a friend to give me another 500 the minute I arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport. So yes dear readers you have probably realized in an instant what took me an entire summer to discover. Here, I thought I was living life on my own terms but truly I was just another brat living a wild life fully funded by a father. I had no idea about the price of independence but I was about to find out very soon.

On my last day at my Khala’s, I had accompanied her along to the mall so she could buy gifts for family members back home. Watching her count her dollars and cents seemed petty and annoying at first but then I realized, I had no idea what it was like to not live the cushioned life I was so used to. When we came across a booth which was giving out a measly 5 bucks for a 30-minute survey, my Khala jumped at the opportunity. I could not fathom why anyone would wait in line almost an hour for a 30-minute survey. All for a measly five bucks. But Khala was adamant on getting her money. Just the same way she always remained stubborn on taking the bus home rather than a cab. On the way home, I noticed her content smile and probed further.
“You won’t understand” she explained “All the money we make at the store goes straight to rent, groceries and other stuff. These opportunities are for my savings.”
“So how much have you managed to save?” I asked sarcastically. 5 bucks to me wasn’t anything worth saving when a Big Mac meal cost more than that.
“I don’t know, its not in a bank. Any time I get some extra cash not made at the store I put in an envelope and don’t count it for a year. It’s always a nice surprise at the end of the year.”
The conversation left me baffled. I now despised myself because it finally dawned on me how despicable I may have seemed to not only her but her kids as well. How I had thumbed my nose down at things, which were all they could afford. When we got home, I saw my Khala lift the mattress of her bed and squeeze the five bucks into a white envelope. True to her word, she made no effort to count the bills inside. I, on the other hand was dying to know.

The next afternoon, I snuck into her room and counted her savings: 1500 dollars. When the guilt ate at me in class that day, I made my spur-of-the-moment decisions which usually get me into a heap of trouble down the road. I have always reacted spontaneously instead of responding rationally, but that’s just the way I was raised. Raised to believe that my actions had little consequences because there were always others to clean up messes that I left behind. After class, I headed straight to the bank and cashed out a thousand bucks. With only a hundred dollars left in my account, I thought I would still be ok. Besides, I would just find a job and work like everyone else. How difficult could that be, right? When I got home, I stealthily snuck the cash into my Khala’s envelope and never told her about it to this day. But that night I sat back and watched her hum as she packed excitedly for a trip home. A trip they took every three years as a family. The same trip I took twice a year.

The next week was as much fun as I had imagined it to be. I slept on a couch in Bo’s apartment and even found a job as a server at an Indian restaurant where I worked five hours in the evenings for tips. Donna worked at a jewelry store while Bo continued his side-profession as a barista at a graffiti laden café to tide him over till his fantasy record deal came through. After ceramics, I would head straight to my restaurant job where I served greasy curry alongside a very nervous South Indian girl under the supervision of three very horny and desperate men with guts in their third trimester. I’m not going to lie, the job wasn’t as easy as I thought but I was determined. After work, I would meet up with Donna and we would walk over to Bo’s coffee shop to hang out and drink free caffeine on the house. Once he closed the shop, we would head off to bar hop on South Street. We would smoke and drink at every dive bar where aspiring - inked and pierced – musicians bought me drinks and then kissed me. I was on my punk rock kick those days, so all my men that summer were the full-body tattoo sort. Yum! Tips made at the restaurant usually took care of the 3am breakfasts and then somewhere before sunrise; we would retire back to the apartment where I would try to ignore the sound of Donna and her boyfriend making love all night in a very sadomasochistic way.

Perfect right? Sure. But, all good things come to an end and true to the idiom this perfect arrangement came crashing down just after a week. First, I quit my job on a whim. The three perverts always yelled at the other waitress and her inability to speak English so one day, I lost my temper, rushed to her defense and informed them that they only had our tits to thank for their lunch rush. I even tossed my apron at them and walked out with gusto because I had already made enough to last me for the rest of the month and a half. So I thought! Then, the next afternoon on my way to class I was confronted by an old Italian lady whose tone meant business. She informed me that Bo hadn’t paid rent in months and if she didn’t get a check by the end of the week his stuff would be on the street. If the threat of eviction wasn’t bad enough she added urgency to her demands with “And don’t think I don’t know about the pot ya all are growing up in that apartment. All I need to do is make one phone call to the police and have all your asses dropping soap in the lockup.” Ladies and Gentleman, problems in our perfect little world had officially begun. As much as I didn’t want to be chucked out on the street, I didn’t want to end up being deported for drug-dealing charges either. Immediately after class, I shared this interesting twist in our perfect summer plans with Donna. Just as shocked as I was, she headed straight home to confront Bo while I headed off to a date with a biker. When I arrived back to the apartment I was greeted by the noise of smashed vases, tossed furniture and hurled curses. I hadn’t expected Donna to react this way over some unpaid rent but when I walked in I realized that rent was no longer the issue. Apparently Donna had walked in to loan her beloved the rent money only to find him in bed with another woman. She assumed it was some skank but when her yelling and screaming was answered by a punch in the face by the woman it was also subsequently disclosed that shaved-head skank was the mother of Bo’s four year old son back in town to reconcile with her baby daddy. An hour later, Donna and I were sitting on our suitcases outside the apartment building. It was around ten at night and we had nowhere to go. We were now officially homeless. At least for the night.

As I frantically tried to chart out a plan for survival, Donna smoked and nursed her black eye. Our first stop was refuge at the Cheap Art Café: a filthy 24 hour diner which doubled as a rest-stop for trannys and hookers who took turns to charge their cell phones. The menus here were photocopied papers stapled together and the food was apparently as shoddy as the clientele. Still, thanks to a similar crisis earlier in the year on a botched spring break I had taken a lot of mental notes of my best friend Jenny’s dexterity in such situations. There will be more on her later but she was my best friend; a walking image of poise and class yet raised in the projects and thus one of the most streetwise women I had ever met. So that night I found myself in the dignified role of calm trouble-shooter while Donna relied on me as her savior. First things first, we needed a place to store our suitcases. We walked the few blocks past the working “girls” (term used loosely to include both biological girls and chicks with dicks) to the Greyhound station. This was pre-911 so both Donna and I were lucky enough to find lockers large enough to store our suitcases for a few quarters a night. Then, we had to find something to do. Immediately, I took Donna to a local bar where the patrons were very ‘sophisticated’ (euphemism for extremely old). We were to hang out at the bar till closing and enjoy drinks bought by Viagra-popping men who probably thought we too were for hire. As Donna spoke endlessly about how deeply hurt she was by Bo’s infidelity, I tuned her out because I had work to do. I conscientiously flirted with the geriatrics around me who flashed their smiling dentures. Luck came in the form of a skinny, gray-haired man who closely resembled the Q-tip I had waxed my ear earlier in the day with. He offered to take us to a local after-party and we agreed. An utterly dumb and risky move, I know, but it’s what we did that night after last call even though we realized we could have ended up chopped up in a garbage can. The after-party was at an old woman’s house, peculiar but lovingly referred to as “Mama” by the attendees. Drugs were plenty and the diversity of the partiers ranged from old trolls to young and busty blondes to even a few muscled and effeminate men in tank tops. Donna and I sat on a couch, trying not to appear too uncomfortable while everyone around us did lines and bumps with straws and dollar bills. By 5am, Q-tip man (now beet-red from all the cocaine) came over and whispered, “I have a room upstairs if you wanna go and hang out. Let me give you a backrub.” I smiled politely and told him I needed to freshen up first. Instead, I grabbed Donna and ran out of the back door. We laughed all the way back to 13th and Chestnut and then passed time by walking around and watching the “girls” work the streets. At one point when a man slowed his car for us, I leaned in and jokingly tried to pimp Donna out. It would be meaningful to know our going-rate in the market of whores. Donna stood in the back screaming “Padash, what the hell are you doing?”
“How much for her?” I asked as I noticed his wedding band.
“I want you.” The man replied.
“How much for her?”
“How much you want?”
“That’s not a real woman by the way.”
“I know I can tell….”
Still he was a decent man because when I declined his rate, he drove away. Once again, dear readers, I realize I was being very stupid. The things I have done in my past, I am amazed, I’m still alive.

We even tried to befriend an Asian tranny called China. She was fabulous and flawless. A pair of perfect Double D’s, which I envied, collagen lips perfect for….eating lollipops (you perverts) and a skirt which hugged her thighs and buttocks as if sewn onto her flesh. As we watched her hop in and out of cars, we admired her sass and wished to be flies on the wall when she did her ‘bidnizzz’. There was just something about her that enticed us women even; a je ne sais quoi of a sort that I wanted to compliment her on.
“You’re gorgeous honey!” I smiled at her as I smoked a cigarette sitting on the curb.
“You really are” Donna chimed in “You’re outfit, your make up its all perfect!”
“What ya all need to do is get the hell up out of my face before I cut ya all biotches…!” China snapped. I guess she wasn’t very appreciative of compliments. Needless to say, our friendship with the fiercest drag queen in Philly ended before it could even begin.

At 6am Donna and I headed back to the Cheap Art Café for breakfast. We now craved nothing but a warm bed to sleep on. Anything soft enough for us to curl into and sleep. A local cyber café where I sometimes checked my email on the weekends opened up at 8am so at 7:55, Donna and I were promptly waiting outside for the owner to let his first desperate customers in. Donna sat and watched as I navigated search engines for a local hostel. We found one just a few blocks away with no curfew, cheap bunk beds and both a nightly as well as monthly rate. We arrived the next minute and made our way gratefully to the 2-person dorm, smiling sleepily and sluggishly at backpackers heading out to sight-see the City of Brotherly Love. Once in the room, Donna and I didn’t say much to each other. We just immediately stripped down to our underwear and curled up on our $18.99-a-night beds to fall asleep.

It was way past sundown when we woke up again. To rid that icky feeling of waking up in the dark, we instantly resumed the evening’s plans. Brought back our suitcases to the room, showered, changed and headed off to a bar. Good distraction from problems at hand by surrounding ourselves with liquor and drunks. The good thing was that we didn’t have to leave the room till the next morning so at least we had a place to return to that night.

“What are we going to do?” I asked Donna at the bar. She casually flicked her cigarette, sipped her drink and shrugged that she was going to head back to her father’s house in Delaware for the summer. Although she despised her stepmother and they had always hated her boyfriend but her dreams of a fun summer had somehow perished overnight. Giving up was just that easy for her. I was disappointed, irked, many things but not surprised. You see, Donna was a perfect example of the majority of students that I went to college with. Self proclaimed hippies who wished they were born in the sixties where drugs and sex were free and limitless. They reincarnated the times by adorning tie-dye, barely bathing, rereading highlighted passages from Kerouac and Kafka, quoting Ginsberg and Burroughs, getting stoned, liquored and hoping that they too were on an endless journey of discovery like the Beats. Only when you looked closer you realized, these so-called rebels were all privileged youth of American suburbia; private-schooled and now in the confines of a fully funded liberal arts bubble where words like “deconstruct”, “gender”, “hegemony” and “sexuality” consoled them that their defiant brains were actually being intellectually stimulated against the norm. Their futures, just as predictable as their present. After graduation, they were probably going to backpack across Europe; hostelling, couch surfing, dropping acid and sleeping with strangers. After six-month of unsuccessful self-reflection funded by Daddy Dearest they would finally accept that they couldn’t after all “beat the system” or “damn the man.” Almost immediately, they would trade in their tie-dye for white coats and follow their fathers footsteps to medical school and a six figure salary. Communists and Socialists would then become republicans. The change they were to make in the world now reduced to annual checks to ‘bandwagon’ philanthropy.

All exactly like me! I too now realized that as much as I harped and debated about leaving home to ‘discover the world’, ‘find myself’ and ‘live life on my own terms’; my argued independence and the above clichés were only reliant on Baba’s wealth. On my own, I couldn’t move a muscle. However, unlike Donna and my friends, I sure was going to try. I would be damned if I didn’t take this situation as a challenge and prove to myself that I could do it too. Especially when Donna casually remarked
“It’s not that bad Padash, what are you worried about? Just call your dad and he will immediately put you up in some place fancy hotel on Rittenhouse square. If that doesn’t work, just drop that stupid class, get on a plane and head back home early.”
I smirked and simply kept smoking. Neither were options for me. Option A meant confessing to my dad that I had lied and deceived him (I just wasn’t read to do that) and then Option B…well it meant the same thing. I was also invested in that trip to Paris at the end of the next month. Greed and selfishness don’t fade overnight!

When we got back to the hostel, Donna immediately met a beautiful but unkempt Dutch boy. By now, all the hostellers had gathered around the courtyard after a day of sightseeing to busy themselves with desperate attempts of flirtation with each other in broken English. For once, I wasn’t in the mood for men even though a group of boys insisted – almost with desperation – for me to join them for another beer. Yaar, I had the pick of Europe from Germany, France, Holland even an Irish lad but I still excused myself and retired to my room because I had other things on my mind.
“Come on, these boys are cute! Free beer, free weed, cute men…what else do we want? Worrying wont solve anything, might as well enjoy our last night here.” Donna tried to convince me and she did have a point.
“I really do need to clear my head and come up with a plan for next month. Room service at the Hotel Sofitel or going back to Pakistan early are not viable options for me. You have fun!” I still declined.

For the first few hours, I read in the room to distract myself. Later I walked back to the courtyard, which was now empty, to smoke a cigarette. Strangers from around the world were probably now exploring each other’s bodies on bunk beds. I, one the other hand wanted to avail this sudden renewed sense of strength and courage. Maybe I could do it. Maybe I could still spend most of summer here. Donna had needed me to save us the whole night and I had succeeded. That proved that I could be tough enough to survive here on my own without money. Besides, I had no one to blame but myself. I had made my bed and it was time to lay in it, even if it cost 20 bucks a night. So I went to the front desk, pulled out my check-card and extended my stay for the rest of the week. I was now down to a measly fifty bucks. That meant I had to find a job again to pay for my weekly accommodation. Whatever it took, I was ready.

And yes my dear readers, everything worked out in the end. I survived. Of course, finding another job at a restaurant was impossible because all the high-schools kids had snatched those up but to pay for my bed at the hostel each week, I had to think of something quick. Unless I wanted to end up homeless on the street again fighting over clients with China. And that my friends is how I became a naked housecleaner, an Indian Massage therapist and nude art model for the summer. With such truly odd jobs, I not only managed to pay for lodging but also my meals, septa tokens and club covers. In fact, I even managed to save up over a thousand that summer.

How and what, you ask? Well, I guess that can be explained in my next piece. For now, be assured, that after that night of homelessness in Philly, I stuck it through till the end. One tough biotch, aint I! Sure, I’m lucky the craigslist killer wasn’t going to med school at Upenn because, then, my next piece wouldn’t have a happy ending. I would be a robbed and left to die Indian masseuse.

The most important thing is that certain night and the summer that followed, shaped the person I am today. Strong, determined, fearless! It prepared me to know that fleeing my parent’s nest to discover the world is not the bed of roses I had imagined it to be. It came with a heavy price and that summer wasn’t the only time I paid it, but I paid it successfully each time. And that, my friends is what matters!