A Love, Unconditional!!!

On a bus home from a weekend in DC. Partying with bureaucrats on Capitol Hill and non-profiteers in Columbia Heights. A city full of ambitious and powerful strangers. Strangers who once become friends and then became family. Yes, I’m mostly talking about Eva and her family of munchkins. Actually, earlier today I was at Eva’s legendary brunch of mimosas, cigarettes and a shared joint before I headed off to Union Station to catch this bus. It was there that Josh – recovering from a failed love affair with his personal trainer - asked a very insightful question.

‘So do you guys really think that there is such a thing as unconditional love? I mean do we ever really find such a thing in a partner?’

Eva’s reply, on the other hand, was even wiser than the question.

‘Of course my dear…the problem just is that we waste our time looking for it in the wrong places. Places where we think it should be when the entire time it was probably right before our very eyes. Food for thought, munchkins!’

Now, as I look out through the mammoth windows of my orange Bolt Bus at cars that whiz past me on the beltway, I’m still slightly tipsy from Eva’s mimosas but even more from her words. Maybe because I am reminded of a similar epiphany I had myself a just a few years ago!

Why Yes!

They say life is beautiful when you’re in love. Ever loved someone with uncertainty of whether it was requited or not? Then you know that its more torture and angst than rainbows and mistletoes. And that my friends was exactly how I felt when I returned to college after my semester in New York and a winter break in Islamabad. I had left a carefree heartbreaker and returned a dazed soul madly in love with a boy called Mustafa. Life just wasn’t the same anymore. Sure I was getting ready to become a senior and still had a year of carefree existence in front of me but for some reason I had committed the cardinal sin of hedonism. I had fallen in love! Fuel to this blasphemous fire, my tight female clique (Jenny, Julie and myself) no longer seemed as tight nor as knitted any more. Life was changing before our very own eyes and there was nothing we could do to prevent that. The entire campus once knew us as a trio of close friends who always got what we wanted and then disposed of what we got bored with. Now, wedged between the three of us was an awkward and unexplainable wall. Initially I blamed the fact that I had been away for an entire semester. The time apart had probably erected this strange barricade. One that would hopefully erode with time. On the other hand, I couldn’t blame them either. Love had managed to turn me into a stranger even to myself, I could only wonder how alien I appeared to my friends.

Getting back to rainbows and mistletoes for a second. Mustafa and I were only a few states apart, so a long-distance relationship seemed possible. Instead of going to Philly to visit Khala 1 on my breaks, I could visit Mustafa at Rutgers. On the other hand, he often drove to cities close to my college town to spend the weekends with me. Weekends I desperately looked forward to but weekends which never quite lived up to the romantic fantasies I had hoped for.

Honestly, this whole being in love phenomenon was completely new and confusing to me. I was literally willing to do anything for this man. He reciprocated by reminding me of the fact that we had slept together before we even had a proper date. And that he had never dated a girl so westernized and liberal as myself. And for once I resented this boldness and independence of mine. Then again, before me, the boy had been engaged to my cousin Sakina and that girl was as innocent and prudish as they came. Soon I found myself apologizing for the same independence and nonchalance that I had always been so proud of. Shoot, I even tried to change myself to become that nice and decent girl for him. What can I say, situations change us. And for the first time in my life I found myself envying Sakina and her purity when in the past she had been the most insignificant part of my life.

‘I’m sorry Mustafa’ I found myself apologizing one day ‘If you have a problem with me going to this crush party, I wont go!’

‘It’s really your decision Padash. I don’t care. Its something you have always done so why stop now…’

Ugh, I hate it when men lay guilt trips on us. ‘Yes but that was when I was single….look if you don’t approve of it, I wont go. I’m really trying to be who you want me to be.’

‘You should be yourself…don’t worry about me.’ He said with his usual tone of disappointment.

Crush parties were a greek-life norm in my college. Harmless dance parties, that would often take place a few weeks before a fraternity or a sorority formal dance. The concept behind it was from old college traditions when women were shy and men had to try hard to get laid. So, if someone had a crush on a person on campus, they would send them an invite to a crush party. If he/she showed up, that’s when you would ask them to be your date to the upcoming formal. But these days, such antiquated traditions were rarely followed. Crush parties had now became just another excuse to get drunk and dance with your friends at a local pub.

One morning as I was getting ready for class, my sorority sisters burst through my door with excitement over a crush invite in their hands. Apparently, it had been slipped under the door for me and the cause of excitement was merely because it was the fraternity that Baseball Chris was a member of. Ok so now you’re probably wondering who Baseball Chris is? Well he was easily one of the hottest guys on campus if not the world, DUH! A close, carbon copy of Chris Klein. Apart from possessing the most perfect tan even in December, he was also the proud owner of a perfectly chiseled body thanks to his coach’s rigorous gym routine. An endearing personality of a shy gentleman to match and Chris Klein was then sent to Earth. No surprise that the entire female population on campus had once harbored a crush on him but our luck, he had always been dating his high-school sweetheart ever since he set foot on campus. The Mina Suvari to our American Pie crush; she was the stereotypical blonde bimbo cheerleader, attending massage school near their hometown. To make matters worse, he was painstakingly loyal to her.

But that was all about to change! Rumor had it, that over winter break, Baseball Chris had broken up with his high-school sweetheart and was now on the hunt for a date to the Spring Formal. Sure, the idea was mildly intriguing but at the same time, as probable as finding princess parking in Manhattan on New Years Eve. (A weekend I will vow never to stay in the City for).

‘So word on campus is that you got an anonymous invite to the fraternity crush party?’ Julie asked me as the two of us lunched alone one day.

‘Yeah…I don’t know what the big deal is! We get invited to these parties all the time…’

‘Well YOU get invited to these parties all the time. I haven’t been to a crush party in ages let alone ever been asked to a formal in the four years I have been here. These sheltered frat boys aren’t really trying to take a curvaceous Puerto Rican chick from Staten Island to their formals. Let’s be honest!’

‘That’s not true…’

‘And secondly…many people are wondering if it’s from Baseball Chris… it would be nice to get asked out by the hottest guy on campus. A guy who I wouldn’t mind even getting herpes from.’

‘First of all that’s disgusting and secondly I seriously and highly doubt it’s him!’

‘Dag girl…this Mustafa guy has turned you into such a Negative Nancy!’

‘I’m just saying being invited to crush parties and formals isn’t all that its crapped up to be. Maybe back in the eighteenth century when potential hookups were referred to as gentlemen callers.’

‘Well maybe not for you princess…but I would love to know for myself. Face it, we may be best friends and all but your world is completely different from ours. Our hood-rat lives of shoplifting pale in comparison to your privileged upbringing and daddy’s credit cards. Your popularity in college with white people, your Barbie doll sorority sisters and your entourage of male admirers of every race…no wonder Jenny said that she felt un-pretty around you and that its not always fun to live in your shadows.’

‘Wait…Jenny said what?’

‘Nothing.’ Julie realized that she may have divulged too much.

‘Julie…you have to tell me!’

‘Look don’t tell her I told you…but…’

‘What did she say?’

‘Well…we became pretty close while you were in New York and once after clubbing we had one of those deep discussions over Ramen Noodles and she said…just…that she preferred going out with me because when she went out with you…she always found herself on the sidelines watching you get showered with compliments.’

I had never imagined that Jenny had felt this way. If she did, I would have preferred that she would tell me about it herself. Needles to say, after that dinner conversation, things between Jenny and I became even more tense. How can you just go back to being best friends after that? After learning that your company was never really enjoyed but in fact resented. Maybe I should have just spoken to her about it but hindsight is 20/20. We just didn’t talk much for the next few days.

The night of the crush party ended up being a lot of fun. My sorority sisters and I were having a blast on the dance floor and it was just nice to be hanging out with another crowd besides Jenny and Julie. When I broke away from my friends to grab a drink at the bar, I found myself face to face with a perfect Adonis who had suddenly blocked my way on purpose. Ladies and gentleman, meet Baseball Chris.

‘I was hoping you would make it.’ He continued to flash his dreamy smile.

‘Wait…that was you….?’
And yes dear readers it was. When I told him I couldn’t attend the formal with him because I was seeing someone else, he displayed some disappointment. Then he suavely assured me that it would be nothing more than a platonic evening between two friends.

Although I declined his request, the campus immediately became abuzz with news that Baseball Chris had asked me out to the Spring Formal. The problem with small liberal arts colleges is that they can be such close replicas of high schools.

Baseball Chris insisted that if I changed my mind, even at the last minute he would be at my doorstep in minutes. Sure this sounded a little too romantic for a ‘friendly evening between friends but hey I’m a girl and we cant help but swoon over such attention. The gay boys who lived in the apartment below us were also throwing a house-party that weekend so Jenny and Julie were going to be attending that. My only plans for that Saturday evening were to talk to Mustafa on the phone till we fell asleep. But when that night arrived he told me that we couldn’t do our usual late night talks. He had some big take-home exam to complete on Sunday and was going to bed early. Surprisingly, he even insisted that I go out with my friends and attend the formal because he trusted me. As soon as we hung up, the phone rang again and it was Baseball Chris asking me one last time if I had changed my mind. Finally, I relented and true to his words, he was at my doorstep within the next hour. I didn’t really go the extra mile to get dolled up that night. I had no reason to. I blow-dried my hair, parted them in the middle and threw on a white dress. Still, when I stepped out Chris greeted me with a bouquet of roses and then proceeded to chant like a mantra that I looked ‘absolutely stunning.’

The formal turned out to be quite a pleasant affair. Walking in with Baseball Chris had its perks and he remained a gentleman all night. If he treated all his female friends this way, one could only imagine the display of chivalry he saved for his girlfriends. As the night winded down, Chris offered to walk me home. Something most frat boys never did, especially for dates of the platonic kind. The walk home was fun as we bounced through topics of first impressions, our classes and our plans and dreams after graduation. When we arrived at my doorstep, I could hear an interminable remix of King of the Castle blasting inside. Although I invited Chris in to attend my neighbor’s house-party, he insisted on heading to bed because of an early morning workout. When we leaned in to hug each other, Chris suddenly took the liberty of pressing his lips on to mine. I immediately pulled away.

‘Chris…I have a boyfriend.’ I reminded him.

‘I know, I know. I’m so sorry.’ He began to apologize profusely ‘Its just that I have always had the biggest crush on you since freshman year. It was just my bad luck that I was always committed to my girlfriend but now that she and I have broken up, I knew I couldn’t graduate without asking you out.’

‘That’s very sweet of you Chris…but I really am in love…’

‘Well…then he’s a damn lucky guy and I hope he knows it.’ Chris was obviously embarrassed and after a quick peck on my forehead he was gone.

A bit flushed at the turn of events myself, I entered the apartment only to be greeted by my male neighbor and Julie. She was in jeans and he was in a sequin dress.

‘Girl….we saw it all from the window….I know you didn’t just turn down Baseball Chris.’ They both chorused.

‘I don’t know…I guess I am a monogamous chick after all…’

‘Eww…who are you and what have you done with Padash.’ The boy laughed.

‘Anyway, what did I miss? How’s the party?’ I changed the subject.

‘Well…we may have an overnight guest upstairs’ Julie informed me ‘Jenny has been making out with Shane for over an hour.’

‘No way!’ I exclaimed. Shane was our football quarterback. A tall African American guy with a body built like a house. He had always flirted with Jenny who had since played hard to get but we all knew she had more than a slight crush on him herself. I guess tonight was the night she was going to break him off a piece and I was happy for her. A little bit of sex would do her good and release all that bitterness she had built up inside of her.

After grabbing a drink, I ran into Jenny and Shane on the patio, huddled in a drunken, lip-locked embrace. She didn’t seem too responsive to my ‘hellos’ but instead chose to dangle Shane around like a conquest. I looked past it because I knew she was drunk. I smoked my cigarette while the gay boys gathered around me asking for every detail about Chris’s anatomy as if I was returning from an orgy instead of a frat formal.

As the night rolled into morning, people got drunker. The song, King of the Castle remained on repeat at the party for hours but everyone was so inebriated and stoned that no one cared nor noticed. Julie too was about to leave the party with Hector the Molester who had undoubtedly received that guerdon for being the college’s infamous perv who often preyed on drunk girls. According to his victims, he was terrible in bed on top of that. Naturally when I saw Julie exit with Hector, I rushed to at least make sure that she wasn’t going to regret her decision later.

‘Let me get laid bitch’ Julie snapped ‘You can’t have all the men in this world. Let us get lucky every now and then.’

Once again, a harsh and caustic remark from a dear friend and once again I ignored it. These were my best friends and I had to remember they were belligerently drunk. As I stood on the patio watching Julie walk away with the college’s worst lay, I was jolted back to reality by the incessant ringing of my cell phone. A smile spread across my face when I noticed Mustafa’s number on the caller ID. Since I had been having a pretty heavy night, he was exactly who I needed. A sweet gesture from a boyfriend whom I loved and wanted nothing more than to talk to for the rest of the night.

‘I’m so glad its you darling.’ I answered with a sigh.

But the voice on the other end didn’t greet me back. In fact, it didn’t acknowledge me at all. I heard Mustafa but only his grunts and his moans, no words. Fused in with grunts and moans of another female. A sound all too familiar, the sound of sex. As I stood there listening to the man I loved, making love to another woman when he was supposed to be asleep, I realized that eventually I would have to switch off my phone. I did just that. What else could I have done? To this day, I will never forget how utterly alone I felt at that moment. A best friend mad at me for reasons beyond my control. Another close friend rudely departed from me. And now, the man whom I believed was the one…had just trampled over my heart.

I returned to the party petrified with shock and dismay. The song ‘King of the Castle’ was now beginning to aggravate me to no end as I desperately searched for my purse. Just my luck that I walked into the room where Shane was hunched over on a couch making out with Jenny. It wasn’t rare for us girls to walk into each other in compromising positions. In fact, we often walked into each other having sex and just responded with quick apologies and a ‘just grabbing my chemistry book…don’t mind me…carry on.’ But when a blonde girl peeped from underneath Shane’s large, athletic body, I was overcome with more shock.

‘Where’s Jenny?’ I demanded immediately.

‘I think your friends a little upset at me…you see she went to the bathroom and then I met umm…this fine lady here…what’s your name honey?’ He turned to the blonde as he slurred his words.

‘Shane you make me sick!’ I yelled as I stormed out.

I searched all over the party for Jenny. I figured she needed me as much as I needed her so it was time to put our differences aside and comfort each other like the good friends we were supposed to be. Eventually, I found her upstairs in our apartment. Standing with equanimity by her bed, silk PJs falling gracefully on her skin as she calmly hummed a Sade tune and smeared lotion on her perfect black skin.

‘Jenny…there you are!’ I entered her room flustered and out of breath.

‘You need to talk to me?’ She replied calmly.

‘Yes…I came as soon as I…’

‘Let me guess…you have a problem you want to discuss…’

‘Not exactly….’

‘A problem like…lets see…one of the hottest guys on campus asked you to a frat formal and then just came on to you…I’m sorry Padash but that doesn’t sound like much of a problem to me. Don’t you get it…I don’t have time to listen to this crap anymore. If these are problems I would kill to have them myself…’

‘No Jenny I came to see if you were ok…’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Well…because…’

‘What?’

‘I just saw Shane kissing another girl…he really doesn’t deserve you anyway…’

‘Wait, you saw that?’ Jenny’s expression instantly changed.

‘Yeah…I….’

‘Great!’ Just fan-effing-tabulous!’ Jenny threw her arms up in despair and plopped down on her bed.

I sat down beside her and placed my hand on her shoulder. We had been best friends for years and this was the first time I had ever seen Jenny cry. She just wasn’t the type to shed tears. A strong woman, who always remained calm when the rest of us would panic. A stoic who had immigrated with her family from Sudan and then grew up tough as nails in the housing projects of Compton. A girl who went from getting initiation tattoos for one of the worst street gangs on the West Coast to getting scholarships on her own to a prestigious liberal arts college on the East Coast. A mentor I had learned a lot from.

‘Its ok babe…he’s not worth your tears’

‘Don’t you get it Padash, I’m not crying because he ditched me for another girl’ Jenny blew up at me through loud sobs ‘I’m crying because you saw it happen. You weren’t supposed to see that!

‘Why …. I don’t get it.’

‘Because….I don’t want to look weak in front of you anymore. Just another effing night when you come home with problems like how you have such a great boyfriend who you met like a Hollywood chick flick and how Baseball Chris is now trying to woo you! I’m sick and tired of your world Padash. You’re not supposed to see me like this….you’re not supposed to see me weak….I cant be defeated in front of you one more night….’

My world almost slipped from underneath my feet as I heard her words spurt out with scorn through a swollen face which turned even more crimson. Tears streaming down her cheeks as the smell of liquor engulfed her frame. There was nothing I could say in return. In all my life, I had only thought of Jenny as one of my closest friends. Now I stood there and watched her yell and scream at me for reasons unbeknownst to me. Weak? Defeated? By me? Her best friend? Tears escaped my own eyes as I quietly backed out of her room, speechless.

‘Am I not right Padash…wasn’t that the problem you wanted to speak to me about?’ She pressed further as I took my steps back.

‘No! It wasn’t.’ I replied quietly.

‘Then what?’

‘I just found out that Mustafa’s cheating on me.’

No other words were exchanged between us that night. Just awkward silence and locked doors. I cried myself to a night of terrible sleep while the muffled dance music and laughter from the downstairs party continued to waft upstairs till the wee hours of the morning.

I woke up late the next afternoon. Just in time to shower and rush off to my work-study shift at the Library. Unfortunately, Sundays were the day Jenny and I worked together – a schedule we had once carefully picked out. Now I cursed myself for it. Jenny was already there when I arrived. Her nose buried in a textbook as she toyed with a highlighter. I too quietly peeled off my book-bag and settled on a stool beside her.

‘Nice sweatshirt.’ Jenny attempted a conversation.

‘Thanks.’ I replied as I reached for my own textbook and highlighter.

We were both wearing our comfy college sweatshirts which we often wore together. They were our dance troupe sweatshirts and the troupe was something that Jenny and I had once excitedly signed up for. It was our ticket to all-expense-paid trips to other cities and around the country’s colleges. We would room together in motels and then, escaping the coach’s eye, we would sneak out to local clubs and bars to party with the denizens. Today, it was almost sad that these same sweatshirts were being used to break the unexpected ice that had frozen over us in just a night.

An hour passed before Jenny jumped off her stool and requested the other girl on the shift to cover for us as we took a smoke break. I wasn’t really interested but she insisted that I join her. Our backs against the wall, we sat on the floor behind the library and lit up our cigarettes before staring out in two different directions.

‘Listen…Padash…about last night…I’m really sorry…I don’t even know what came out of my mouth…I was just very drunk and…’

‘Jenny please’ I stopped her ‘The least you can do is own up to what you said. Don’t hide behind alcohol. If it came out of your mouth then it was always there, buried in your mind somewhere. Just admit to your words and stop making silly excuses.’

That wasn’t all that I said. I also told her that I had no idea she ever felt that way about our friendship. That the words ‘weak’ and ‘defeat’ should never be used when it came to good friends. I had always hoped for nothing but the best for her. How I had always looked up to her. In fact, she had been far from ‘weak’ to me, but it was actually her strength that drew me to her. She quietly listened to every word with succinct nods.

‘Sometimes in our lives Padash we become our own worst enemies…I just let my insecurities take over me…I’m sorry.’ She whispered.

‘Its ok.’ I sat there tracing odd sketches on the ground with my cigarette butt.

‘And…and…I really am sorry about Mustafa.’

‘So am I.’

‘I had no idea that he could…’

‘Well now you know. Guess what, my life isn’t as beautiful and perfect as the world thinks it is. I get rejected and hurt just like everyone else.’

‘You really loved him didn’t you?’

‘Sad part is I still do.’

‘But…then….?’

I shrugged ‘It hurts…a LOT.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘I have no clue.” I shrugged again “I really wish I knew…but I don’t.’

‘Are you going to break up with him?’

‘I don’t know.’ I thought for a while, ‘Probably not.’

‘But you will confront him about it wont you?’

I shook my head again. ‘Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll even do that.’

‘Padash you can’t be serious?’

‘The funny thing is Jenny, I actually am.’

‘But…’

‘I hate this person that I’m becoming. The person he has turned me into. I don’t even feel like the same Padash anymore….I just feel soo…sooo weak.’

‘Stop it.’ Jenny smirked ‘You sound like me last night.’

‘I feel defeated.’ I decided to tease her some more.

‘Hey watch it…that’s my best friend you’re talking about!’

We laughed for the next few minutes and just like that we were friends again.

Once my shift ended, I arrived at the dining hall where Julie was already waiting for us on a table. Our traditional Sunday dinners.

‘I don’t wanna talk about it!’ She laughed as I sat down next to her with my tray of food.

‘Hey I tried to warn you about Hector the Molestor but…’

‘Yeah…I should have listened!’ Julie winked ‘By the way, is Jenny not joining us for dinner?’

‘She’s running late…we made up earlier today…long story.’

‘Good. I shouldn’t have told you what she said while you were in New York…it seemed to have really messed things up between you guys.’

‘I’m glad you did. I needed to know.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, I resented her for the comment as much as you did. Can you realize how I must have felt when Jenny said that? That she enjoys hanging out with me instead of you because she doesn’t feel less pretty and like she’s in your shadows. So what does that make me? The bottom end of our friendship food chain? Even girls that develop inferiority complexes can feel better standing next to me…’

‘Julie…that’s not true!’

‘No it is…and I thought about Jenny’s words the same way you did. But I guess envy is an inevitable emotion among girlfriends.’

I didn’t try to sugarcoat my replies. ‘So I guess the more important question is…where do we go from here?’

‘Accept some realities and then move on.’ Julie smiled.

Jenny eventually joined us for dinner and after a brief bout of an awkward silence Julie raised her glass ‘So chicas….spill the beans...the end to yet another crazy weekend in our lives…and I want details!’

The dining hall of our dorm echoed in the familiar warmth of camaraderie’s din. Inhabitants on every table talked to each other about the weekend while setting their differences aside. The jocks on one table laughing loudly and belching about which chick they ‘hit’ and ‘tapped’. The cheerleaders and sorority girls giggling over gossip about each other. The Goths too laughing awkwardly through carefully painted frowns in black lipstick. The gay boys laughing loudly on the other end sharing their own carnal tales of debauchery set in bathhouses and dance clubs. The international students in their corner recounting their weekends with broken accents. And just like them…the three of us sat on our own table…laughing, giggling and sharing details about Chris’s attempted kiss and his revelation of love. About Shane’s sloppy kisses and how Jenny was more than disappointed by what she felt between his legs. About Julie’s terrible night with Hector the Molester who insisted on singing along to a UB40 CD while having sex.

At one point, Jenny reached over and grabbed my hand ‘Baby, you’re an amazing person…just remember…there are people out there who deserve you…who will provide us with unconditional love.’

‘Actually’ I smiled as I squeezed not just her hand but Julie’s as well ‘I don’t know about you guys, but I may have already found them both.’

Mahrose Place!!

I know for a fact, that we have all found ourselves in moments when we wonder how our lives became dramatic TV thrillers all of a sudden. Complete with twists, turns and climaxes, we wonder (and sometimes pray) for commercial breaks! You know the moments I’m talking about, right? When we are forced to step back from whatever jangled mess we find ourselves in to witness our life as it unravels before us like a bad episode of a Star Plus drama. Sometimes with a smile and at other times with a wince, we then wonder why and how our lives morphed into a juicy, dramatic and unbelievable episode fit for Melrose Place or Eastenders. The reason I know that many of you are nodding along to my words at this very moment is because after every column that I publish, I get several emails from readers who confess that their lives are far more interesting than a Blockbuster hit as well. Many of you have even shared an interest in someday penning your own memoirs. And why not? I have often said: who needs fiction when our own lives are far more interesting (not to mention juicy). So while you take a minute to think of a moment in your life when you found yourself trapped in a soap opera of your own, I’ll go ahead and share my debut as the lead, or maybe it was a cameo or was I the heinous villain in an episode of my life’s version of…Mahrose Place?

Why Yes!

After the first year of A-levels, I spent the summer traveling with my family to visit Khala 1 in the States. Waking up in luxury hotels in Philadelphia, I was oblivious that a few years later I would find myself homeless on these same very streets. Staring out from ferry rides around Manhattan, I couldn’t have ever imagined back then that this scary and intimidating City would actually become my home. How quickly my fear and trepidation of this strange metropolis would be replaced by stumbling journeys on subways and strip club alleys at 4am without as much as a bat of an eyelid. And California; the golden Coast, where I would later spend a winter break as a drifter in Compton; partying in Hollywood and having threesomes in Orange County with my college best friend Jenny.

After an amazing trip around the States, I returned to Pakistan, refreshed and excited for the upcoming school year. A chance to reunite with the friends I had missed all summer. It was also around that time, when I had begun dating my very first boyfriend; an overweight, cheapster called Akbar. Surprise, surprise, he was the only person I hadn’t missed much the entire summer. In fact the only man I had missed was my gay best friend Peanut who had spent his summer in London. Maybe that’s why I’ll be eternally single. Straight men and I connect only on a sexual level. All the soul-mates that I have ever met have come in rainbow packages. And as much as I detest admitting this, I am quickly falling into that stereotype of a quintessential, late twenties, female New Yorker. An eternal fag-hag! Speaking of New York, in my naiveté during my trip to the Big Apple, I kept my eyes glued out of backseat windows – hoping, wishing – to maybe catch a glimpse of Alisha walking down Fashion Avenue smiling radiantly in her signature tight clothes, dark makeup and long curly locks. I saw many who resembled her but never her. And although Alisha had painted a very seductive picture of her New York; for a sheltered suburban girl from Isloo, the City gave me the creeps. Definitely not a place I wanted to move to. So much for that eh?

The first day of school as A-level second year students, we showed up, semi-jetlagged yet attired in our proudest shopping. Outfits wrestled obstinately out of suitcases and ironed hurriedly for the most critical runway in the world: a high school corridor. The following few days as seniors were as picture perfect as we had hoped. Hanging out in the common room huddled around the token hippie/aspiring rock star who had succeeded in growing out his hair despite his father’s protests. As he would strum a U2 or Bryan Adams ballad, the rest of us would sing along because we were free, the world was our oyster, the school our haven and our friends were lifelong (lets just ignore the fact that we all lost touch the minute we left high school).

It was also on one of those perfect, Kodak afternoons in school when Peanut and I decided to grab lunch at Arizona Grill and then stop by his place for a quick dip in the pool. Walking into his house, bags slung over our shoulders with carefree abandon (highly indicative of our entire existence back then) we chatted away indifferent to the world around us. It was only after we stepped inside the pristine marble floors that we sensed a strange tension enveloping the atmosphere. That and the fact that tiny pieces of an expensive and mammoth vase were scattered all over the floor. Accompanying them were tinier pieces of smashed china and other bric a bracs. We barely even had time to register the damage in our minds when we were greeted by his stepmother. Perched lifeless on the foot of the spiral staircase; cigarette in hand, hair disheveled and quite possibly the first time I ever saw her without makeup.
‘Tina….who did this?’ Peanut asked!
‘I did!’ she replied with bloodshot eyes.
I remember smirking a little because I honestly thought she was joking but when she scowled at me with a deathly glare, I pursed my lips shut immediately.
‘Are you serious?’ Peanut raised his eyebrows sarcastically.
‘You should know what a disgusting whore your father is’ Tina broke into loud sobs ‘The bastard has been screwing every tramp in the city. Thinks he can take me for a fool!’
Oh Houdini, Copperfiedl, Ainak Wala Jin: if disappearing was at all possible this was the time for me to vanish into thin air. Why did I have to walk into one of the most awkward moments of my life and now there was no subtle way to retreat.
‘I think I’m just going to head home!’ I nervously whimpered as I began to step back.
‘Yes Padash, I think its best that you do. This isn’t a good time…’ Tina instructed.
‘You don’t tell my friends what to do’ Peanut interjected as if the moment needed to be any more uncomfortable and then turned to me ‘I’ll meet you at the Flat.’

I spent the next hour in Peanut’s room, skimming anxiously through a large stack of Sugar magazines. A part of me couldn’t wait for my driver to get there but another part of me wanted to make sure that Peanut was ok before I left. When the guard buzzed me on the intercom, I quickly sprang off the bed and grabbed my bag. But that very moment, Peanut walked through the doors, amazingly calm and composed. I sat back down on the bed to make sure he was ok.
‘Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be!’ he shrugged as he plopped down in front of me.
Truth be told, I was quite shocked at how unperturbed he seemed. The strange debacle had even left me a little more than disturbed. But Peanut was as cavalier, as one could be, humming a tune as he lay in front. Then with his eyes up at the ceiling he reached for a cigarette and remarked ‘Spice Girls? Garbage? What you in the mood for?’
‘Peanut, are you sure, you’re ok?’ I pressed.
‘Absolutely!’ he replied handing me the lit cigarette for a puff ‘I just don’t know why she’s making such a big deal about it! He did the same to my mother with her, why wouldn’t he do the same to her when he got bored. What an effing drama queen!’
I was forced to conclude that Peanut’s nonchalance was all an act. Any boy had to be upset to discover through enraged rants of a despised step-mother that his father was sleeping around with multiple women. All in front of a school friend he had brought home. But then again, this boy had been through a lot for his age already. He had probably become resilient by now. After all he dealt with the same discovery when his dying mother found out about his father’s affair with Tina. In fact, I wondered if he secretly savored this as a sweet victory. A few more cigarettes and a joint later, we hugged our goodbyes and promised to call each other later. As I left, Peanut continued to hum with equanimity as he rummaged through his CDs with a carefree cigarette dangling from his lips.

School life resumed back to normal immediately. The next day, Peanut pretended like nothing had happened while I couldn’t help but wonder if it was all a façade to mask a deepened hatred for his father. When we finally found ourselves alone in the Common Room, I decided to cautiously broach the subject one last time.
‘Oh that!’ He shrugged unflappably ‘She has moved out. But I’m sure the gold-digger will be back.’
‘I don’t care about her.’ I dismissed his response ‘I’m asking about you? How do you feel?’
‘I really don’t have an opinion on the matter! I could seriously care less! This concerns two people that are as insignificant in my life as a zit on my butt. Remember babe, just a few more months and then we move abroad.’
‘And live life on our own terms.’ I had no choice but to appease his hint to drop the subject.

Life goes on and so did ours. The entire incident was soon reduced to jokes by Peanut about inviting the whole school over for happy hour pool parties. The house was always empty now because the Wicked Witch had moved out and the ogre was too busy poking other tramps in hotels. I would spend almost every afternoon in Peanut’s Flat and we would waltz around the entire bungalow like we owned it. Secretly, even I began to wish that Tina would never return.

A few weeks rolled by and one night, I found myself attending a wedding at a garish shaadi hall at the Marriot Hotel. It was a painful evening to say the least as I suffered through judgmental stares from Auntys and brain-dead small-talk with their daughters. Usually I would be able to save myself the misery by staying home but for some reason my parents insisted I attend this wedding. So I sat silently squirming at the stage-play cum shadee that was so common in Pakistan back in those days. Segregated seating, coke bottles being served like top-shelf liquor and food being piled into plates like the Last Supper. Trapped and sandwiched between corpulent women in rows of plastic chairs all facing the stage. Like noveau riche audience at a Broadway play. Ensconced between several decked-up women staring at a stage where the female lead was a lifeless woman who barely looked up at her spectators and a dumb-looking man who beamed at the world with a possible erection that mimicked the strange looking origami ‘kulla’ perched on his head. The man delivered the same lines ‘Thank you’ to every Faberge egg wrapped in a sari that bestowed him his ‘salaami’. The male audience in the men’s section sat silently side-by-side with their legs crossed, staring straight ahead at the same stage. I imagine they too were attempting to make small-talk with the stranger next to them but topics were probably limited to whether each knew the bride or the groom and then wonder when dinner was going to be served.

So, I too sat in a chair more painful than a dentist’s chair during a root-canal. The annoyingly boisterous girl next to me would just not shut up. A daughter of some friend of my mother’s and we were both expected to become best friends on cue.
‘Tu aap kee college may kya routine hotee hay’ were the type of questions the chick expected me to answer and when I would politely inform her that I really didn’t have much of a ‘routine’ she would follow up with.
‘Matlab kay, kuch tu ho gee na…matlab kay best-friend koee aap kee…saath course study waghaira?’
Matlab kay, I had a mind to tell her that my best friend in school was a gay boy called Peanut and our routine consisted of getting stoned and drunk, doing magazine sex quizzes in his room or skinny dipping in his pool. How was that for the ‘waghaira’ she kept asking about? Instead, I controlled myself and just responded with a forced smile and a robotic nod. Desperately looking around the hall for an escape route.

The first chance I got, I made a run for it. When she disclosed ‘Mujhay lagta hay woh meree college may head prefect hotee hain…may sara un ko Salaam kar aaon’ I couldn’t have been more elated. At that point, I didn’t really care what head she was talking about, I just gave her a thumbs up and dashed straight out of the hotel and into the parking lot to sneak in a quick cigarette. I had to bum the cig off the security guard who may have been a pervert but was also very resourceful. He told me where to find ‘scent’ to sprinkle on myself to mask the smell of smoke. I guess, he was used to girls like myself escaping the torture of shadee halls.

As I savored my seclusion to smoke a ‘sutta’ in peace while ignoring my chaffing tang-pajamas, my eyes fell on the flashy red car that belonged to Peanut’s father. Parked inconspicuously in the dark parking lot, I knew this was too good to ignore. I immediately stubbed my cigarette and ran towards the lobby to call Peanut from the front desk. If Peanut could manage to make it down here fast enough, we could catch his father and his mistress in flagrante delicto. We would knock on every door till we found them red-handed in some uncompromising position. So after paying the 5 rupees for the call (remember those days), I had barely dialed Peanut’s number when I spotted his father stepping out of the elevator and making his way across the hotel lobby. His hair still wet from a fresh shower and an impish, almost boyish grin carved on his face. The kind that stretches across faces of adolescent boy’s who loose their virginity for the very first time. As I tried to hide behind the pillar, my jaw dropped open when I finally saw the girl smiling flirtatiously back at him in her tight, fitted kurta and wet and showered hair parted right in the middle. It was Afia (Afia from Karachi Company). One of my closest female friends outside of the school who lived in Karachi Company and spent her days devising ways to socially climb her way to the top for a better life. I immediately placed the phone back on its cradle and hid behind the thick pillar. Luckily they were so engrossed in their amorous moment that they barely noticed the world around them. With shock and disgust, my gaze followed them all the way out of the hotel. By the time I returned to my seat, I was so dizzy with what I had just discovered that for the rest of the night, I let the girl’s useless banter fall on deaf ears. Even on the way home, I sat in the backseat staring at the darkness of my city, furious at the situation I had once again gotten myself tangled in. What was I even going to do? Utterly ironic that this would happen between the two friends I would often find myself torn between. Peanut was my only school friend who had met Afia and for some reason they had never set off on the right foot. Not only had they written each other off within the first few seconds of lunch but had then spent the entire time making extremely rude digs at each other. Afia had never met anyone as effeminate as Peanut and could not understand why a man would choose to act that way. Her curiosity and mocked amusement irked Peanut who retaliated with rude jibs about her mediocrity and broken English; both sore spots for Afia. Now I had just caught her having an affair with his father! Great!

In school the next day, I didn’t know how to act around Peanut because I was still unsure of how tactfully I was going to reveal this information to him. To make matters worse, I would get stabbed by guilt each time he would make some acrimonious joke about his ‘disgusting father and his nasty tramps’. At home, I did not answer any of Afia’s calls for the entire week. That decision was fueled partly because I was upset at her but mostly because I was just not sure how to bring it up with her either. After two weeks of the same charade of lying to Peanut and avoiding Afia, I knew I had to face the situation and couldn’t avoid it any longer. To my surprise Afia decided to show up at my house herself one night. When my servant came to my room to inform me that she was here, it was also on a night that my parents were out at dinner. I knew that there would be no better time than now to confront her. If it was inevitable to make a scene, this would be the perfect time to get it over and done with. When I stepped out, Afia was seated peacefully on the cane chairs in the middle of our front lawn. Still as beautiful as ever she sat smiling out at the distance while sipping her lemonade; clueless about the turmoil I had been suffering through for the past few weeks. With a wide smile she greeted me when I sat down. I responded only with cold and succinct replies. Immediately she fired off her complaints of why I had not responded to any of her calls. My eyes daggered through her as my temper flared up.
‘Yaar Padash, yeh sun, may nay aik aisee zabardast machlee phaasee hay’ she instantly began detailing her latest conquests which in the past would always intrigue me ‘Paisa hay, ghar may swimming pool hay…uff bara elite type hay yaar.’
‘I know’ I replied and then uttered his name.
‘Aray, how do you know him?’
‘Because he is Peanut’s father!’ I snapped back.
Speechless, Afia stared back while I continued my vitriol. ‘You’re destroying peoples lives you know! I had to witness a woman bawl and smash vases around the house because her husband was screwing YOU! Peanut is my closest friend in the world and I have never had to hide anything from him. How do you think I feel when I know that you’re destroying his home?’
‘Padash, I swear I had no idea…’ she pleaded.
‘That’s just it Afia! You never have an idea about anything but yourself. You are a selfish bitch who doesn’t think of anyone. All you do is hustle people for your own gain and you don’t care how many people you hurt in the process. I know you and Peanut can’t stand each other but he would never do such a thing to you. Is this really your idea of getting back at him for being rude to you? Is that how low you can stoop? You ‘re a coldhearted witch who will fall flat on her face one day.’
I said a lot more than that. She just listened quietly with her eyes wide with disbelief. Once I had gotten it all out of my system, I told her she was free to finish her lemonade and leave when she wanted. Before she could even reply, I spun around and headed back inside the house.



Now I realize that my outburst may have been unfair and even somewhat ‘filmy’ but surprisingly it was also cathartic. Any hints of guilt that later crossed my mind, I immediately pushed away by justifying to myself that Afia had crossed a line this time. Once my outburst with Afia was out of the way, I now had to figure out how and when to disclose it all to Peanut. In school, I would nervously dance around the subject but never have the heart to say anything. The more days passed the guiltier I felt! A couple of weeks later, I was lying in the common room all alone listening to ‘Life in Mono’ ( my favorite song during those days) and when I looked down from the ceiling and saw Peanut standing at the door. He had just returned from Jinnah Super with some of our friends and now stood staring down at me before uttering the words ‘I know who my dad’s been screwing!’

I literally jumped up with guilty remorse. Searching for accusation and betrayal in his eyes, I even contemplated making up a lie. He just walked over and sat down next to me before pulling out a glossy magazine from a brown paper bag. Still overwhelmed with nervousness, I watched him flip through the pages before landing on one.
‘This biotch right here!’ he remarked pushing the magazine towards me.
It was a picture of his father snuggled up next to a middle-aged woman with short-hair and heavy makeup. The two were beaming proudly at the cameras while sharing a shawl at some Ghazal evening.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked him.
‘Oh yeah’ Peanut smirked ‘Muzna just told me she’s some upstart divorcee who is a well-known slut in the Aunty crowd.’
‘Are you upset?’ I pressed further.
He simply shrugged ‘Honey the only thing I’m upset about is that he’s banging a woman who wears purple nail-polish with pink lipstick. If he’s gonna cheat on Tina, he might as well do it with someone younger and with more class.’
‘You know she may not be the only one?’
‘Oh trust me, I know. Word has it that he has been dipping his fingers in a lot of pots these days so who can we blame! Come on lets go hang out with the crew downstairs!’

Sure I was relieved that the conversation hadn’t taken the turn I was expecting it to. But I was also a bit shocked with Peanut’s apathy. Of course, his dislike for Afia would probably deepen if he ever found out about her fling with his dad but at the end of the day, he really didn’t care who his father slept with especially since there were so many women. The entire time I had wondered how Tina had found out about Afia when in fact it could have been the older woman from the magazine, some hooker from Heera Mandi or any paramour for that matter.

A few days later I received an email from Afia.
Subject: ‘I ended it.’
I immediately clicked on it.

‘Dear Padash,
You would be happy to know that I have ended things with Peanut’s father. You made it clear to me when you insult me in your house that you never want to see me and I am alright with that. But since I am a loyal friend and I know you were angry, I ended it on the spot. But let me tell you one thing, if you think he will go back to being good husband just forget about it because he has a lot of woman. I also want you to know that I did this not because of Peanut. I damn care about him. I did it for you. He is not my friend but you are. Also, I did not email to tell you that I ended it with his father. Actually I emailed you to ask you a few questions….’

I sat there reading through her entire email, speechless. I even stared blankly at the screen trying figure out the right words for a reply. There were none. Her first paragraph had been the easy part to read but everything she wrote after that left me ashamed and embarrassed. Made me truly question myself as a person. Of course I didn’t email her back then. In fact, I spent the entire day moping over the questions in her email. Before I went to bed that night, I logged on to that lousy dialup internet and sent her my best reply.

Subject: ‘Sorry’
‘…Not because of what happened but because I have no answers to your questions. Lunch sometime?’
Toodles
Padash!

I wasn’t expecting it but the next day Peanut of all people walked into the Common Room to inform me with an eye roll that Afia was at the gate. I grabbed my stuff and dashed out eagerly. We drove to Yummy 36 and then sat in a booth awkwardly for what seemed like eons. She remained cold and distant while I was quiet with awkward remorse.
Finally I decided to break the silence ‘I didn’t tell Peanut anything.’
‘You can if you want to, I damn care.’ She shrugged with her arms folded across her chest. Even with her fake sunglasses perched on the top of her head and the bright makeup on her face, Afia always seemed endearingly innocent to me.
‘You were right about everything in your email.’ I continued ‘It wasn’t until I read all your questions that I realized how wrong I was.’
‘Not but you also had a right to get upset! I play with fire and sometimes I face the consequences.’
‘But its not just you. We all play with fire.’
‘So I guess I’m sorry….’ Afia finally smiled.
‘I’m sorry too!’ I smiled back.

As we scooped our ice-cream, watching the flavors melt onto our plastic spoons we knew that slowly the same was happening to the awkward wall which had built itself around us. At one point Afia stared out of the window at a group of young girls walking by in white uniforms and innocent giggles.
‘Do you think their lives are anything like ours?” she asked.
‘I highly doubt it!’ I replied.
‘When DID are our lives become so complicated? Or did we complicate them ourselves?’
‘We probably did. I don’t know. But that’s probably why found each other. It’s what we have in common; our tendency to choose a complicated life over a seedhee saadhee one.’
‘Yeah, you’re right, we’re definitely not your normal teenagers!’
‘Not at all…and I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Afia laughed ‘Those girls probably worry about school crushes and prank callers while we sit and argue about affairs with married men.’
‘Crazy huh?’
‘So I guess it is a good thing we met each other. We are so alike.’
‘Exactly, that’s why we all met. You, me, hell even Peanut.’
‘Birds of a feather...’

Of course I can’t remember the verbatim conversation between us that afternoon, but it was pretty close to what I have just recounted. Afia dropped me back at school and things quickly resumed back to normal. To this day, Peanut has never found out about what I saw at Marriott that night. And you know what; I am at peace with that. After all, he really didn’t care who his father canoodled around town with. Even now that he enjoys a good relationship with his father he often jokes that he sleeps around so much himself because it’s a trait he gets from his father. As for Tina? She moved back in to the house a few days later but after a mere few months they were separated again…and then divorced. Peanut couldn’t have been happier and would then joke that he was grateful to all the sluts in Islamabad for banging his father and helping him get rid of Tina!

Dear readers, there are plenty of things in my past that I am not proud of. But I share all of them with you without euphemisms. My hypocrisy in this situation is one of them. It was only after I read Afia’s email that I was made to face my bigotry like a bad reflection in the mirror. The infamous questions in her email that I had no answers to.

‘So tell me Padash, why are you really so upset? Are you angry because you are a pious girl who not approves of my lifestyle? Why did you not disapprove it when we first met? Why you encouraged it and enjoyed all the stories? Why you would spend hours with me in your room or in restaurants asking me to tell you details of my affairs? Why you would giggle and laugh with me? Why then you did not say I was doing something wrong? Then why is it that when one of those men happened to be your best friend’s father, suddenly you accuse me of being wrong and evil. Don’t you think all the other men had wives and children also? Why you never discourage me from that? In fact tell me honestly, if it was not your best friend’s father would you still think I was destroying lives? Are you really too pious to have an affair yourself?’

They say actions speak louder than words. Although I was never able to respond to any of her questions in written or spoken words, Afia got all her answers in due time. It turned out that I was not too pious to do the same after all. A few months later, I also got involved with a married politician whose son went to my high school. Funny thing is, even Peanut became involved with married men he would meet online. One of them was actually his father’s friend and hunting buddy.

I guess if this was truly an episode of a soap opera called Mahrose Place, Afia would not be the villain. I would be. But if our lives really worked like soap operas, I wouldn’t be here to admit my mistakes and acknowledge that no matter how perfect we may all think we are, at the end of the day, we will always be just a little bit hypocritical. Every character in this show from myself to Afia, Peanut, Tina and even the father has a bigoted side. Our lives and our personalities are never one-dimensional carved out meticulously for scripts and ratings. And maybe that’s what distinguishes soap operas from real life then. Sometimes we are heroes and sometimes we are villains. Sometimes we are just supporting characters and sometimes even extras. Sometimes we enjoy happy endings and at other times we accept tragedy. And through it all, we remain to be our own worst critics!

And now, right before the credits are rolled…a word from our sponsors...

‘Meree muthi may band hay kya? Bata do na… Naz Paan Masala yaar aur kya u perv.’

Afia from Karachi Company!!!

People often wonder – as I do so myself – of the things that shaped me into the person that I am today. Defiant, carefree, brazen maybe even controversial. Of course, events had a lot to do with it but also the people who waltzed their way in and out, leaving a mark in their own special way. Friends, lovers, foes. I was always unlucky in love but very lucky when it came to friendship. Platonic companions who taught me how to live with a balance between sanity and hedonism. Girls these days may seem a dime-a-dozen with their aped shock-the-world attitude but back when we were all supposed to be ‘sweet’, ‘haughty’ and ‘innocent’ – such girls were not only a rarity but also heavily penalized for their unabashed demeanors. Yet, I chose to befriend such girls and learn from each and every one of them. Alisha (the promiscuous and unconventional girl from the States in Pakistan for the first time). Afia (the over-ambitious girl determined and destined to leave the mediocrity of her Karachi Company home for a life of glamour and decadence). And then there was Jenny (A best friend in college who personified class and poise yet possessed the street-smart astuteness of a girl raised in the projects of Compton). I could dedicate a section to each of them in this piece but it wouldn’t be fair. And since there is just too much ground to cover, we really should tread along. Shall we?

Why Yes!

Before I had ever met my Jenny from the block and a few months after having dealt with the mysterious disappearance of my best friend Alisha; there came into my life an inspiring, go-getter called Afia from Karachi Company. We had met on the #Pakistan channel on mIRC. For those of you who don’t know what those acronyms mean, I’m revoking your FOB membership card. Also, just to make it very clear, I wasn’t really trolling the chat-rooms for women – my elevator doesn’t stop on the lesbian floor – I was simply chatting with random people on the main screen. A certain nick called Pakizah caught my eye and we immediately bonded over our shared habitual sarcasm when it came to misspelled nicks that typed ‘Madam-can-I-be-your-boyfriend’ on the main screen. Pakizah was hilarious and I was instantly drawn to a girl who was enjoying typed praises from all the men in the chat-room. Every five minutes a loser with an equally sad nick like ‘L0V3RofallFR13NDS’ would profess his undying love for Pakizah along with a pitiable rose crafted on the keyboard: @}—‘,---

Her replies: ‘LOL, ROFLMAO I need a man with money not a cyber-café loser!’

Apparently a chat-room regular, she was savoring each click and tap of her cyber popularity. As snooty as she seemed, the boys remained relentless in pursuing her.

And I had to agree, all these acne-layered boys who probably sat in their shorts and shalwars hoping to meet a Lara Croft on the internet, were not worth our time. So I chatted with Pakizah instead and pretty soon, we were typing ‘hahaha’s’ and ‘LOL’s’ as we made fun of the losers on the main screen together. So honored was she to have met a female like herself, she gave me 3 free passwords. Ok, for those of you who weren’t around during those days, internet access in Pakistan was bought from shady offices called Supernet or Cybernet that sold hours. Pakizah on other hand boasted of a list of passwords with several pre-paid hours. Later, she told me how easy it was for her. She would flirt with the boys in chat-rooms, call them a few times to let them hear a girl’s voice. Then, carefully she would craft a sob story of how she lived with conservative parents who wouldn’t allow her to talk on the phone so the only way she could communicate with them was over the net (emails/chat/ICQ). The men – now already falling in love with their first girlfriend – gave her their passwords along with sappy and mushy Blue-Mountain cards with animated hearts and corny ring-tone-ish ballads beeping in the background. The words ‘Missing You’ shimmying across her email inbox with such desperate longing only to be deleted. But the passwords she kept for herself. In a few months, the boys would realize that they had just been conned and they would eventually change their passwords. Still, the fact that Pakizah’s stash of pre-paid passwords were never depleted should be indicative of how many boys in Pakistan would kill for a ‘garrfrand’. As for Pakizah, I loved her already and we decided to stay good friends.

In the beginning, we exchanged a few customary emails, then one day we decided to talk on the phone. The minute I heard her voice, I was shocked.
‘Hello Padash, hoe are you, I am Afia from Karachi Company. Pakizah is my nick-handle on Pakistan channel’.
She sounded nothing like I had imagined. A mousy voice drenched in a strong Punjabi accent. While her cyber persona had invoked an image of a badass and sultry Angelina Jolie-esque vamp, all I could picture now was an Anjuman Cholie in a long, oiled braid. Still, even with this anti-climactic discovery she sounded interesting. Her words were almost endearing when inserted statements like ‘This is me only, love me or hate me, I damn care’ would pop up out of the blue! Later that day, I was meeting up with some school friends for bowling at Hot Shots and the next thing I know, Afia shows up like a stalker to say ‘just hello, hi’. My friends instantly began to scrutinize this local girl with judgmental eyes while wondering how I could know such a paendoo girl. Still, in an effort to be courteous, I sat down with her and engaged in polite small-talk. Afia too was well aware of the disapproving looks and sniggers being flung her way but she really did ‘damn care’ as she continued to rant and rave about herself. Instantly, I knew that Afia was no ordinary girl from around the corner. She was a woman with much bigger dreams for herself than what her Karachi Company life offered.

As the weeks rolled by, Afia and I became closer. It was almost refreshing to meet a friend outside of the private and elitist walls of UCI where everyone looked and acted the same way. Aptly referred to as Burger Central by the lafungas who hung outside our gates for hungered peeks of girls in tight tops and jeans instead of the boring white and pallid shalwar kurta uniforms. Afia would shamelessly confess that she wanted nothing more than to be a burger herself. An IT student at Quaid-e-Azam University, she would proudly wear jeans and T-shirts bought from local, knock-off stores and would then devise ways of infiltrating into the world of burgerdom herself. Whenever we talked, she wanted to know about dance parties, restaurants and the celebrities (or their kids) that I went to school with. A world alien to her, she wanted me to describe everything in detail and then she would admit her utmost desire to experience it herself one day.

So determined to transform herself into a celebutaunt, Afia would spend hours repeating dialogues in American movies while imitating accents. I remember when she wouldn’t stop saying ‘As if’ like a broken record after having memorized all of Alicia Silverstone’s quips from Clueless. Still, I encouraged her as much as possible while slowly beginning to detest this tragic culture of elitism in Pakistani society. Afia, became hope for me – or even an experiment unraveling before my eyes– of how this unjust and pre-destined system could in fact be changed. Sure, the noveau riche could one day, swivel a party invite from a contact, private schools for their children and maybe a country club membership from a bribe but would they ever be truly accepted by the so-called true elites? These born-rich, English medium, US educated, Cuaba smoking and Cognac drinking snobs that seem to clout the social scene and the decision-making in Pakistani gentry.

You see, mimicking American accents and British slang from movies and music videos, only allowed Afia the ability to mask her background on the surface. But to enter the social and elitist scene of Islamabad, she had to offer something of potential use in return: a well-connected patriarch, a glamorous name for others to drop or a simply a colossal bungalow to entertain in. Still, naïve to that fact, she would spend hours asking me to detail the self-indulgent lifestyles of spoilt, daddy’s girls of Froebells and UCI. It would invoke in her, a strange excitement, as she would imagine the possibility of being chauffeured in expensive cars to parties where youth danced, smoked, drank and conversed in flawless English. All superficial fantasies in hindsight but had I not met Afia at that age, I would never have known what others outside of our little bubbled world perceived us as. How they would stare from afar and maybe even wish to one day touch: this fate of being born in a privileged family and all the glamour that came with it.

Luckily Afia had discovered the internet at just the right time to help her achieve her dreams. In cyber-space, a person’s class and social status didn’t matter. One could envelope their fabricated personas into whatever they hoped to be. So Afia spent hours trolling the internet for connections or coat-tails to sneak her way past the velvet ropes of the upper class. At first she began talking to boys who lived in the affluent sectors of Islamabad; F-10, F-11 or F-420. These were boys who may have been privileged but were socially awkward at the same time. They existed invisibly or as social misfits in their schools. Lack of self-confidence usually brought upon by a nerdy appearance, obesity or an irksome stutter. They too were able to live out their fantasies of being studs and gods in cyber-space since one really couldn’t see what they actually looked like. A match made in heaven for social-climbing and materialistic girls like Afia. So while the world struck up conversations on mIRC with asl? (age, sex, location?) Afia usually typed in ‘What school do you go to?’ or ‘Where sector do you live in?’ She also made frequent appearances on channels such as #Froebells and #UCI to cruise for similar prey. I have to admit, I was amazed at this girl’s determination. She would ask me if I knew of a boy called blah blah at my school. I would confirm that he was a pimpled, overweight boy who never left a corner in his classroom. ‘Purfect’ she would then hiss like a business savy exec closing a lucrative deal. After all, she got rides in expensive cars, meals at expensive restaurants and gifts bought from vacations abroad. The boys in turn began to return to school with raised self-esteem. Amazing what having a ‘garrfrand’ can do to a boy’s ego at that age. For my friends and I, lunch at Pappasalis or dessert at Hot Spot was part of a commonplace routine after school. For Afia, it was a novel experience she had only heard others talk about. Slowly, I began to appreciate what I had long taken for granted.

Soon, Afia moved on to bigger and better things when she began to frolic around the city with certain species we like to call ‘Uncles’. Married men who too had discovered chat-rooms from their glass-castle offices in Blue Area. Chatting with a girl like Afia, gave them the ego massage they had long bid farewell to somewhere after their fourth kid, the last patch of hair on their head and the seventh inch added to their own waistline. Afia was young and hot and thus the perfect candidate for a casual fling or a clandestine rendezvous for these bored but wealthy men. And for Afia, they were men who didn’t have to ask their fathers for money. They were the fathers with the money. Thus began Afia’s escapades with her countless sugar-daddies.

Now sometimes she would meet a man that sounded interesting on paper but when she found a richer, wealthier man the first one had to be ditched. It was a similar experience with a boy called Akbar whom she passed on to me. Desperate for a boyfriend at that time, I embarked on a 9-month relationship with the boy. Most of you may have already read about him in my previous piece (Happy Effing VD to you too!). An opportunist by nature, each man Afia met was an open door or a free ticket out of the middle-class. Each ‘uncle’ she canoodled with sparked a new idea for a possible escape from her current life. She thought about becoming a model, she desired to be a fashion designer, a business executive, a socialite begum of a rich industrialist and once she even toyed with the idea of becoming a fashion photographer. Sure, a little confused but she was inspiring nonetheless. A girl almost the same age as I who savored each chance and chased every opportunity only to make something of herself. I could get all the same things at the snap of a finger but instead I was too lazy and uninterested. I will never forget when she excitedly disclosed to me about the married Ad exec she was having an affair with. He was fearful of his suspicious wife so she suggested an internship at his agency. That way, not only could they carry on their illicit hanky-panky in his mammoth office but she could also walk out with a fictitious yet lionized description on her resume of projects she worked on and all the ‘wonderful’ tasks she had accomplished at this agency.

While some men merely gilded her resume with make-believe internships, others took Afia out for lavish feasts at exclusive country clubs. Places she had only wondered about from the other side of the members-only bougainvillea walls, she now sashayed around alongside the city’s crème de la crème.

Besides being impressed with Afia’s drive to design her own future and destiny, I also admired in her the honesty with which she lived her life and the unapologetic way she lived it. Affairs with married men, sizing up potential dates by their take-home salaries, courting men for dinners and lunches and carrying on pretend ‘relationships’ for free internet passwords were all laurels under her belt. And so jaded had I become with the female clones that cat-walked along the walls of UCI with their droned whining and their priceless accessories, that I welcomed her into my life more and more. I secretly detested those bratty girls who knew nothing but to sneer down at ordinary, inadequacy and difference. So self-righteous they pretended to be with their noses stuck up in the air because in their world, class was synonymous with conceit. On the other hand, I found Afia’s honest confessions both refreshing and exciting. I immediately realized that these were the kind of friends I felt comfortable around and wanted to have in my life. That is why our friendship, even though we belonged to two very different worlds, continued to last.

Now of course, Afia was only able to conveniently pursue her dreams and her antics because she enjoyed a certain independence which other girls in her neighborhood didn’t. She could drive her father Suzuki FX to university or to her cyber dates. Once when we shared ice-cream at Yummy 36, she told me her story. She was the youngest of three children. The eldest of the siblings was a cherished brother whom the entire family had pinned their hopes and dreams on. He was schooled in private institutions while Afia and her sister would take a wagon to Model School. Still he was their pride and joy and so when it came time to study further, their father used all his savings to send him off to England. Sure Afia was resentful of the favoritism and envious of such blatant sexism but she hoped that her cherished brother would one day return home to whisk them off to a better life. One which came with a kothee in F-10. After he graduated, the brother informed his Karachi Company family that he had met a British Pakistani girl and was getting married. The family called and asked if they too could be a part of the wedding but he argued that it was too expensive and all he wanted were their blessings. Discouraged, they still decided to support him. The girl apparently belonged to a rich family and immediately the brother moved in with her family and began working for their father. After that, Afia’s family got a total of four abrupt aerogrammes from him and eventually he faded away from their lives. Afia’s family concluded that although they were happy for him they belonged right here in the mediocrity of Karachi Company themselves. Her parents then immediately busied themselves in saving up for their daughter’s wedding but Afia decided she was going to do what her brother had once promised. She immediately assumed the role of a son in the household. Driving her family around the city, bargaining with plumbers and electricians and negotiating with landlords. She also promised them that one day, she would bring home enough income to not only support them but shower them with comfort. So headstrong had she become that she even argued with her father about pursuing an IT degree over Home Economics. She had decided early on that it was a more lucrative career choice. All her decisions, she made for herself and then dreamt of success, which she struggled each day to make a reality.

I could go on and on about my friendship with Afia because we managed to become extremely close in those two years. How she stood by me after my failed relationship with Akbar and when I wanted to end an affair with a married politician myself, I conveniently passed him on to Afia. (‘Happy Effing VD to you too’) Afia’s men weren’t limited to just rich businessmen. She was later escorting high-powered celebrities around the capital’s party circuit; politicians, television artists even diplomats. Unfortunately, no names will be mentioned as I remain sworn to secrecy for a true friend.

Our friendship didn’t always remain hunky dory either. We had our share of arguments. Nations have warred each other on merely being different, so it was inevitable that the two of us – as different as we were – would one day squabble. A brawl in particular strained our relationship to an irreparable point. Afia had always asked me to invite her to a UCI dance party. Although I would often spend time with Afia to escape the superficiality of my classmates, our friendship was essentially of the furtive and covert kind. She took me to a different world when I wanted but then I would return to my cushioned life built on the fortune of being raised with comforts. What I was accustomed to and what Afia fantasized about. Still, towards the end of my A-levels, I decided to finally invite Afia to a friend’s party. Usually, I would be lucky to have received a invitation myself but since this was a friend’s party, I managed to get an extra one for Afia as well.

She was ecstatic and immediately borrowed an old top of mine to wear. The party was no different from any other party where we swayed to bubble gum beats and smoked our menthols to assert our roles as popular girls and high school elites. It was not till much later when Muzna, the host of the party and one of the most popular girls in school huffed over to my corner and emitted a theatrical and deliberate shudder.
‘What’s wrong darling?’ her friends fawned over her.
‘Gate crashers yaar what else’ Muzna scowled ‘So many cheapsters have snuck in.’
“Uff I cant stand stags. Why cant they just stay on their Vespas where they belong. Isn’t the guard doing his job?”
“He is but you know how they are, they still sneak in. Not just boys. Girls too. You should see this third-class, Bollywood type dancing like a whore. Bitch thinks my party’s a damn mujra.”
The girls cackled and pointed at the girl. Spiteful comments were then flung conspicuously her way as she tried her best to ignore them while dancing by herself.
‘Oh my God! What the hell is she doing?’
‘What a paendoo loser yaar!’
They howled and soon some of the boys even joined in “Dude she winked at me! Where did this weirdo come from anyway?”
I stood there with my ‘friends’. People who had made me popular by association. Girls who had allowed me the privilege of acceptance in high school. Who I would never dare upset. So as they mocked and ridiculed Afia – who really did look out of place on the floor with her filmy dance moves – I pretended I didn’t know who she was either. In truth, I hid behind the other girls petrified that Muzna would find out that I was in fact the culprit who had invited this ‘wierdo’ to her party. For the rest of the night, I avoided Afia. When a couple of friends decided to leave the party early, I immediately tagged along before Afia could spot me. It was a weird feeling of both embarrassment from my peers and guilt from Afia.

The next day as expected, I got a call from Afia. She wasn’t her usual chirpy self. Instead she began her tirade right away.
‘Stuck up bimbos. You are a snob too. What do you guys think of yourself. No one talked to me, no one danced with me…I damn care.’
I wanted to inform Afia that her perception of our world was heavily twisted. That here, people did not socialize at social gatherings. Mingling was reserved solely for familiar faces and conversations were reserved for gossip about mutual acquaintances. Everyone was to represent a surname here even if they were oblivious to that fact. Instead, I shot back. ‘What else did you expect Afia? This is how we are, this is how I am! You cant just become a part of Islamabad’s in-crowd by simply donning a designer T-shirt which must I remind you, came from me. And these boys aren’t your horny married men who will come running when you flirt with them, they have class. They have standards! They don’t date girls from Quaid-e-Azam University or Karachi Company! Did you even see the way you were dancing? You looked like a fool!’

Wont go into much detail but eventually we made peace. Our friendship however was now at an eternally different place. Irremediable. When each word, each thought, each gesture became formal, calculated and deliberate. Fear of being judged by the other during conversations, honesty and comfort now took a backseat. So we spoke only of what the other wanted to hear. Or what we thought they wanted to hear.

After my A-levels, I left for college. Afia and I stayed in touch through sporadic email exchanges. She was genuinely excited for me and wished it was her who was starting an all-expense-paid life in the West. I was glad that even though our little incident had tarnished our relationship’s innocence, it still did not discourage her from chasing her dreams. She still ‘met’ men with important names and notable job titles. A year later, when her agency offered to transfer her to their Germany office, she jumped at the opportunity. She was finally leaving a home and a life she had longed to flee from. Her emails now gushed with optimism. She loved her job, she had bought a cozy flat in Frankfurt and was even able to send home a big fat paycheck to her proud parents. I too was genuinely happy for her.

We met again last year in LA. I was going up for my 28th birthday. Afia had informed me that she too was going to be in LA for work and we instantly planned to meet up. Though we both had other plans, we decided to meet every night for 4am breakfasts in her room.

Meeting Afia was surreal. She looked nothing like I had last seen her. Dressed in a dapper Dolce & Gabana suit, she looked elegant and sure in her short, power bob. Her make-up meticulous, her Blahnik’s intimidating. She welcomed me with a big smile from the top of the lobby’s balustrade as if she was a princess and The Omni, her castle. I had arrived at her hotel after a night of clubbing, a brown paper bag in my hand full of greasy diner food.
‘You look marvelous darling! I love the transformation.’ She exclaimed as we hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks.
‘So do you?’ I reciprocated the compliment, meaning it.
‘I sure hope so. I paid a hefty sum for these.’ She grabbed her two round breasts ‘They don’t lie when they say beauty and perfection comes with a price and a plastic surgeon.’
We spent the next few hours catching up on life on her bed as we stuffed our faces with French fries soaked in Tobasco.
I couldn’t believe how much she had changed. She had become so European even in the way she dangled her clove cigarette. Not a single trace of Karachi Company in the same girl who had once fanaticized about this life. I sat before her in my tube-top and leather pants. How much we had both changed. The protected little daddy’s girl living life out of her shell, perfectly content with her modest bed and breakfast. My clothes worn more for sex appeal than the brand stitched meticulously on the back. Afia on the other hand was enjoying a stay in a five-star luxury hotel as she commented about how much she adored Europe and how unimpressed she was by America. Her parents had even managed to leave Karachi Company and were now living in a nice house thanks to their youngest daughter who had once decided to assume the role of both daughter and son. We had breakfast again a few times after that and then we even shared a limo to the airport together. She giggled lovingly at my NYU sweatshirt, ripped jeans and a backpack as I slid into the cab with her royal highness. Her three pairs of matching Burberry luggage, and her designer suit to travel in. Channel shades on her nose and a chiffon scarf wrapped around her neck as if she was on her way to high-tea at a country club instead of an international flight.
‘God you have become so American!’ she joked. ‘You always did have that hippie streak in you!’
‘God you have become so Euro’ I laughed back ‘You always had that diva streak in you.’
And so we celebrated the fact that we were both finally content in the women we had now become.

I will always admire Afia for everything she taught me. The brash and carefree lifestyle I live today is attributed to what I once learned from that ambitious girl in an orange T-shirt and knock-off jeans I met a long time ago outside a bowling alley. Afia taught me many things but most importantly, that one should always dare to dream. She is a walking example of a person who managed to leave her middle-class life to achieve what she had always set out to accomplish. Her past no longer matters because today, she rubs shoulders with the same people who may have never looked at her twice. When we are young some of us struggle some of us don’t have to. But come tomorrow, its all fair game and that certain classmate, that peculiar acquaintance and that boring cousin we thought would never amount to much may end up being the one we send our resumes to. Even in a nepotistic nation like Pakistan where mostly those born sucking on Cerelac in golden spoons are able to pay their way through a VIP ride.

I don’t know what Muzna or my friends from UCI are currently doing. I have a hunch they are all running a tired boutique bought by husbands and fathers. But I know very well what my Afia from Karachi Company is doing….or should I now say my Afia from Europe!