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.’

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!

Peanuts Don’t Always Come in a Box!!!

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

Why yes!

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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