There were once three brothers: Babar (the eldest, fell somewhere between jerk and player). Amir (the middle child, least attractive and I’m sure dealt with many other issues) and then Qadir (the youngest, the best looking but also the one with the best sense of humor). I once harbored a deep crush on all three. All my crushes, tragically in vain. The brothers never really knew I existed and the ones who did, well lets just say, I wasn’t the top of their list of guilty Sunday afternoon dreams either. On the other hand, Aliya (my then best friend) was the lucky biotch wooed and asked out by all three of these handsome brothers. Am I bitter?
Why Yes!
So let’s backtrack a little. I need to first describe this superficial, pseudo best-friendship between Aliya and I. We first met during games period in the sixth grade. I was the new face in an all girl school. You see, after my failed love affair with Irfan ended in the 3rd grade with him choosing balls and boys over my luscious, curvaceous self, my father got posted in America for a few years. When I returned to Pakistan I realized that three years in the States gave you this esteemed adulation from an Amreekan impressed Pakistani world. Uncles and Aunties wanted their children to play with me so their kids could learn to speak English too. Others always addressed me in their broken English as if I had forgotten Urdu altogether. In turn, I encouraged their ignorance by always answering back in English. Hey, it’s a superficial world, so you take what you can get. In school, other girls labeled me the “American girl” and automatically assumed I was a snob since I spoke Angrezi and had once sat among goras. Frankly, I much preferred being labeled an Amreekan Return over being known as fat. Even teachers carefully treaded on instructions around me as if they were now conscious of a sixth grader passing judgment on their heavy accents and poor grammar.
In my little all girl school, sixth grade wasn’t just one class either. It was divided by many alphabets next to it. Every year, our admissions (and our fees) increased and that led to an additional alphabet next to the same grade. 6A, 6B, 6C…so on. I believe we were up to F’s when I was admitted to the school and I quickly resumed my place on a wooden desk in 6F. Aliya was in 6A. Girls from different sections rarely ever talked to each other and 6A had all the pretty, well-spoken girls with mothers who were also teachers. In my section (6F), Zara and I were the only ones who rarely committed English-medium sins such as announcing “Madam can you please run the fan” or “Madam she is chewing chingam” and my all-time favorite “Madam, there are two girls from 6b in bathroom drinking cigarettes.” Boy, did we think we were better just because we could pronounce a word or two. You can hate me for being a shallow sixth grader later but for now just read on. For the most part, Zara and I got along well and most of our conversations were about boys and crushes. That was also the time, I had fallen madly in love with the infamous math teacher and Zara had developed a crush on an older Fsc student from the boys section. Although Zara was quite pretty and teachers always picked her to play the princess, the rose or the butterfly in school plays; I always got stuck playing either the prince or the post man. Once I was even coaxed into playing a moth. By the eighth grade, Zara left school much to my dismay and as a result of desperate restructuring I was moved from 8F to 8A. Yep, the cool girl class. Aliya was one of those cool girls. At that time, being a teacher’s daughter, allowed you VIP status in primary schools because favoritism and nepotism are words some of those teachers still can’t pronounce. (Don’t even get me started on how much I cringed each time our English teacher barked layer, player and finoo-minoo instead of leisure, pleasure and phenomenon.)
I never thought I would ever be friends with a girl like Aliya but after a couple of weeks and wearing expensive jewelry, prospects began to look promising. Finally, after getting into trouble with all the other girls for something I hadn’t even done, I found myself being liked and accepted by Aliya and her crew. My only two friends before that were two girls who fashioned a conservative braid like mine and spent their recesses sitting under a tree, talking about cousin’s shaadis, Isstudies and PTV dramas. You can imagine how painfully root-canal-ish those conversations must have been for me.
After I succeeded in becoming friends with Aliya’s crew, maintaining my friendship was the simple and easy part. I knew exactly what I was to do and did it quite well. I was to be the “sweet, fat” one who all the other girls poured their hearts out to. Confided secrets and guilty revelations they couldn’t share with others in fear of being judged. The friendship required of me only three things: 1. Listening (long-winded stories that stretched for four periods about a boy),
2. Nodding (it helped them to know that they weren’t talking to themselves),
3. Not saying too much (they weren’t talking to themselves but it didn’t mean they were interested in what I had to say either.)
Easy enough. If my opinion was ever needed, I was to dispense advice (deliberate, well thought, calculated) exactly how they wanted to hear it.
“It’s ok if you don’t want to invite Shela to your sweet sixteen and not tell her.”
“Its ok if she’s your best friend but you still think her nose is bigger than her face.”
“Its ok, if you plan on dating her fiancée.”
And to this they would offer a rehearsed hug and exclaim “Oh Padash, I knew you would understand, you’re so sweet!”
Sweet. Oh how I detest that word now! But back then, it was considered the best compliment while being called a bitch was the worst insult. Today, it’s the opposite and that’s why I always say “thank you” when called a bitch and say “your mama” when someone utters the word sweet!
As the 8th grade neared an end, the hip girls knew it was time to bid farewell to the faded brown desks and secluded desperation of an all-girls school and head for a cooler, co-ed environment for our O-levels. The Matric girls were to stay behind and resume their isstudies while watching dramas and attending shaadis. Yes I am still fully aware that we were superficial, clueless and despicable and if you read further you will know we got what we deserved.
After the winter break ended, Aliya, Shela and I finally set foot in a school called Froebells. The pure mention of the school’s name invoked images of frogs and tadpoles but inside the walls these frogs had apparently been kissed plenty of times already and were now princes with hip hairstyles and better uniforms. No mommy-daddy cuts here and actual ties with knots instead of elastic. Four high walls that contained all of Islamabad’s burger kids. Far cooler than we could ever be. British accents, American accents, smokers, teen models, stoners, partiers. You name it, you found it. And as the three of us tried hard to hide our uneasiness behind smiles and giggles, we were obvious misfits as lost in this bourgeois world as a breastfed baby in a tittie-bar.
Girls with streaked hair snickered at us when our thick braids bounced on our behinds with apologetic embarrassment. Boys looked right through us. For them, girls were not fantasized species behind the cemented division of a boys-section and a girls-section. Here, no walls separated the boys from the girls. Boys completely unlike the cheapsters, cheappangas and the cheappreeses who hung outside our old school on motorbikes with greasy hair and belt-buckles as shiny and big as they were fake. Lavish, Calvin Kalein and Parade; you name the knock-off, they proudly displayed it. Remind me to one day tell you about the time a similar boy once tried to make frandship with me at a meena-bazaar and when I told him his Channel-V T-shirt was as heinous as his face, he proudly replied.
“It is designer baby, Chanel and Versays.”
But I digress. Where were we? Why yes. So the first few days in school, we were lost. I over-heard a few jokes about my weight while Aliya’s only woe was that “these boys think we are some paendoo losers….we need to act like we are cool. Come on Padash laugh loudly when a cute boy walks by.” Shela and I nodded and laughed for no reason just to appease our Queen Bee every time a boy’s ping-pong ball bounced near us. To Aliya, I felt like saying “woman that’s your only problem? I heard a boy refer to me as a Bun-kebab but you don’t see me whining!”
Slowly, as weeks passed, Aliya got her wish. She got a haircut with bangs, tilted her head lazily to the left with all her hair cocked to the side and voila, it was just that easy. Men slowly began to waft and buzz around her like flies circling crap. She encouraged them back with smiles both flirtatious yet haughty. Before you knew it, Aliya was finding roses in her bag, secret admirer cards and prank calls from boys with sexy voices completely different from the sleazy greetings of a “Hello Madam hoe are you? Can I make frandship with you?”
Shela was more gorgeous if you ask me but somehow she lacked the art of flirting and seduction which Aliya had mastered over years of reading Sweet Dreams and watching 90210. Her world became even more exciting when she began to see her name on party invitations. We had heard so much about dance parties but had never set foot in one. When people asked her which friend she wanted to bring along she always took my name and then told me to keep the parties a secret from Shela. Too flattered and excited to be going to these living room discotheques, I obediently agreed. The real reason Aliya chose me had nothing to do with her liking me as a friend. All she wanted was a girl less attractive standing besides her when she walked in to a party. Someone to help make her look occupied but someone who could never steal the limelight of attention away from her. She would then bask in the ego-massaging affection from boys on the dance floor while I sat back, smiled and held her purse for her.
If you have ever been to a Pakistani dance party in the nineties, you know the scene. A small room where usually Ama, Aba, Beta and Beti ate daal chawal, now dreadfully transformed into a mimicked version of a Manhattan nightclub. A disco ball in the middle, strobe lights on the side and giant speakers on all four corners. All on rent! It was also perfectly normal for boys and girls to dance alone (terrible dance moves with snaps and claps) and rarely was there ever any bumping and grinding. I would watch boys whisper and point longingly at Aliya sashaying her hair seductively while playing hard to get. And then somewhere between Informer by Snow and All That She Wants by Ace of Base, Aliya would leave me to dance with those boys for the rest of the night.
Now, this is where the brothers come in.
Babar the Eldest:
He was Shela’s first crush at Froebells and the three of us spotted him together in one of our free classes. A picture of such handsome perfection, playing table tennis in his – or probably his father’s – Bonanza sweater. His racquet swing always turned more pimp, his smart-alec remarks more witty; when blatantly encouraged by the giddy giggling of the three new bachiyan who stood there without a life. He was in his A-levels and a desi version of Tom Cruise, Ronan Keating and Hugh Grant all wrapped up in Bonanza wool.
“He’s so cute. I think I’m in love!” Shela immediately called dibs leaving Aliya and I cursing our luck. In girlfriend world, any possible feelings we harbored for the man were to now be immediately nipped and perished. She had called dibs on the man.
“I can tell he totally likes you too.” Aliya dealt with disappointment with lies and trickery.
What about me? I wanted to ask but if Aliya had backed off of Shela’s crush, I knew I had to as well.
“You really think so?” Shela asked. She was so naïve.
“Of course” Aliya nudged “We should walk by him so he can notice you some more.”
The “walk by” was actually staged for Baber to notice Aliya, not Shela. I knew that. Aliya knew that, in fact she had planned the whole thing. But Shela, that poor girl was too oblivious to realize. Always the innocent pretty girl, Shela’s love life never moved past secretly staring at a crush from afar. Aliya on the other hand had mastered the art of seduction by the 8th grade. The hallways of Froebells were now her playground.
That day, only I noticed the flirtatious exchange between Babar and Aliya. Later, when I tried to broach the subject, Aliya quickly dismissed it. After a few weeks, while Shela was busy coming up with code names for Babar while filling out colorful questions in sticker-heavy scrapbooks, Aliya continued to flirt with Babar behind our backs. Then, one day she confessed to me that she too had a massive crush on Babar. That made three of us now!
Even though I could not keep Babar out of my mind, I was quick to realize that Aliya’s interaction with him consisted of a lot more intimacy than mine. Besides, the flirtatious smiles, she got the raised eyebrow of interest each time she tried a different hairstyle and once he had even gone out of his way to open a door for her and compliment her on her perfume. Me, well there was that one time, he sorta, kinda, almost glanced at me but he could have just been eyeing the Frost fruit juice in my hand. Aliya had made me promise to never tell Shela about Babar’s flirting because she was never going to violate the girlfriend code. The code was violated conveniently the next month when Aliya informed me that Babar had asked her out and she had accepted. Not going to lie, I was extremely jealous. I envied everything about Aliya; she always got what she wanted. When she asked for my help to sneak out on her dates with Babar, I immediately agreed. I thought that he would someday notice my inner beauty. How dumb was I? For a Pakistani boy in his A-levels who has yet to feel a girl’s breasts, “inner beauty” are words that he only consoles himself with 40 years down the road when he realizes that the mother of his three children is the only thing left to make love to. Slowly as Aliya’s relationship flourished we began to avoid and ignore Shela altogether. Eventually, Shela took the hint and made new friends. The trio was now down to just Aliya and I and that fact couldn’t have made me more miserable.
The dates continued. If Aliya and Babar were to meet, my plans didn’t matter. I was to shut up and assume my role as their cover-up for the evening. So, as they canoodled all over town, I was left to wait in places like Old bookshops, British Council Library and once even at a cheesy Bruce Lee movie at Nafdec Cinema. I took it all, from two-hour-long karate subtitles in dingy cinemas to standing by myself all night at Muddy’s Café while they danced and made out. What I couldn’t take was how frequently and conveniently Aliya would insult me with her words. She crossed the line one day by literally slapping me across the face for not bunking a class for her date. Although we were alone when it happened, I decided to walk away. Today, I would have beat that biotch down but back then I wasn’t as strong! When Shela found me crying all she said was.
“What else do you expect from a girl like Aliya!”
Aliya and Babar dated the entire year and once Babar finished his A-levels he headed off to college in the States. The irony of it all; he was on the same flight as me. When we crossed paths at the airport, I wondered in fate and the possibility of happy endings but all he had for me was a nonchalant half-nod. After years of helping him get to third-base with his girlfriend by being her alibi for the evening, all he had for me was a half-nod of acknowledgement waved at a familiar face and that’s it. It was then that I realized, that although I had spent the past year dreaming about him, the thought of me had never even crossed his mind. Good closure, PIA airport.
After the summer, I returned to school and was immediately greeted by trashy rumors about Aliya. Apparently, Babar had told the whole school that Aliya had lost her virginity to him in the backseat of his car. I still don’t know if its true but such things are no one’s business. So as the whole school gossiped and giggled, I couldn’t help but feel sympathy for her. Later that day, I found her crying by herself in a corner. Babar had also left behind three other girlfriends in the city and for the first time I didn’t envy Aliya for being the one he chose. Aliya had never managed to make any friends after me. Maybe because she searched for a follower instead of a friend. Insult to injury, she was now the butt of the school’s juiciest rumor. Still, I reached out to comfort her and though she appreciated my shoulder, she sobbed the words “Now, the whole school thinks I’m a slut…they think, I’m just another you.” It was a typical Aliya comment. Bitchy, callous and full of poison. Indicative of the kind of comments she often threw around when we were friends. I walked away once again. We have barely spoken more than a few cordial words since.
Amir the Middle Child:
Soon after Babar left for college, his two younger brothers Amir and Qadir joined Froebel’s as the new boys in school. I first laid eyes on Amir when I walked into a Biology class and instinctively found a seat next to my new best friend, Shela. During the boring lecture the two of us passed notes and giggled.
“Check out Babar’s brother he’s behind us in the blue shirt.” Shela scribbled on a piece of paper. When we turned to look at him while trying to stifle our smiles, the poor boy mistook our smiles as interest. Too bad he didn’t see the next note that Shela slid my way: “He’s not cute at all. I guess Babar hogged all the looks in the family!” For some odd reason, I ended up falling for Amir in that class. Sure, he had more acne than skin but maybe my attraction for him was merely to complete the unresolved feelings I had for the older brother. Who knows? All I know is that of all the boys in my school, my next crush after Babar…was none other than on his second brother.
All notes passed between friends were always carefully scratched away so teachers, classmates and subjects of conversations wouldn’t discover the thoughts we shared during boring class lectures. Amir, unaware of the conversation, walked out of class that day with a chest heaved forward and his crotch stabbing the air in front with four inches of bulging pride. I honestly don’t know about the truth in that detail but he just seems like a four inch type of guy! And I’m usually right when it comes to men!
A week later, he walked over to Shela and I during lunch break and dramatically handed her a dozen roses with a proposal to go steady. The rest of the school watched like spectators at a theatrical event as Shela turned red and quietly slipped away from the excited and envious stares. Aliya would never have done the same. She would have pretended to be embarrassed but would have walked around school dangling her bouquet with gusto; taunting those who could only wonder what it must be like to be asked out in front of the whole school
Back in those days, when a guy asked a girl out, she was allowed a week to “think about it.” That week was the most special week for a girl who now became the center of attention. People deliberated over what her answer would be. Boys teased the suitor each time she passed by. Others crawled out of the woodwork to remind her that they too were interested. Aliya used to love such weeks and would bunk every class to walk around school and bask in the admiration. Shela on the other hand, steered clear of such egocentricities. And while the whole school talked about how pretty Shela was, Aliya watched along with disdain and jealousy. She had now been reduced to old news. Babar’s left-over. A has been. How quickly beauty and popularity fades in the superficial walls of a high school.
Shela politely declined Amir the next day instead of stringing him along the entire week just to enjoy the attention. While he sulked with embarrassment in front of the school, Aliya grabbed the opportunity to move in and grab the reassurance she so badly wanted. She attempted to comfort the boy by flirting with him incessantly. I knew her far too well, even the words going through her mind “How can he ever pick another girl instead of me?” I wanted so badly to go and warn Amir but somehow, my feelings for him and my insecurities held me back.
Just as I had so accurately surmised, after Aliya had dropped enough hints for Amir to pursue, he finally asked her out with another dramatic proposal. She asked for “a week to think about it” and then declined even more publicly than his proposal. Aliya, victorious in her plan once again. The appetizing, almost nourishing taste of being desired and wooed once again fresh in her mouth, after a dry spell of rumors and unpopularity.
“What a bitch!” I overheard Amir pour his heart out to a friend. “She did everything short of asking me out herself and when I said why not, she turns around and rejects me then tells the whole school!” Closure, in the library. My crush on Amir finally ended. He too, had picked the cunning pretty one instead of me.
Qadir the Youngest:
Ok, this is where it gets very confusing. I’m going to throw more names at you so try to keep up. Take notes if you have to. Where do I start with Qadir. I obviously met him around the same time as I met Amir and although he was far more attractive, I initially fell for Amir first. Maybe because Qadir was in his O’s and Amir was in his A’s and I usually go for older men. However, somewhere between the beginning of my crush on Amir and before he trampled on my heart with dramatic proposals for my friends, I met the youngest one during an Economics class. Before the teacher arrived for a boring lecture on Supply and Demand, I sat in between friends yapping away. I could notice Qadir quietly stare at me from the corner of his eye. He saw girls who slapped boys on their knees and spoke with confidence instead of introversion. I sort of enjoyed his shy and boyish attention. The next few weeks, I ran into him in hallways and classrooms where he would flirtatiously smile. Slowly his comments became more and more bold and suggestive. (Not that I was complaining). It wasn’t till later, when we actually became good platonic friends when he informed me that it was a dare from his friends to flirt with me. What perverse pleasure do boys get by watching their buddies flirt with other women? Voyeuristic? Homoerotic? Anyway, the attention was slightly amusing if I do say so myself. When I was finally over Amir, I actually began exploring the prospects of a relationship with Qadir. It was more like “You? Anyone? Are there any damn takers in this family?” But that hopeful crush lasted only a brief few weeks as well because pretty soon rumors of Qadir dating Annie (another pretty slice in our class) were flying around the school like wildfire. Ok, no luck with that one either. I was getting used to it by now. Annie was another good friend so I was happy for her. The most interesting part was that Annie’s best friend was a shy girl called Nida. (Told you to take notes, told you it gets confusing). Nida was also overweight (actually obese) and she followed Annie around like I once followed Aliya. She weighed far more than I did but just like any big girl she had a heart to match her size. Though I could tell that Annie and Nida’s friendship was not as dysfunctional as Aliya and I; I saw a look in Nida’s eyes that no one else noticed. Very subtle but a look that could only be recognized by someone who had once hid the same look. The hopeful sparkle of an insecure best friend who secretly struggled with feelings for her best friend’s boyfriend. The boyfriend barely even aware of her existence. A mere accessory behind the girl he exchanged cards and heart-shaped candies with but an accessory who hoped and wished for a miracle that one day he wakes up and notices her. I never did ask Nida about the look and I doubt she would have confessed.
When we returned from our summer vacations that year, Annie dumped Qadir on the first day of school. Heartbroken, he began showing up at my tuition center to talk to me. Me! When I first noticed him waiting outside as I stepped out with my register hugged closely against my breasts, I realized how much I had dreamt of this moment. When I walked up to him with a smile, even more butterflies fluttered around in my stomach when he asked if I would join him for ice-cream at Yummy 36. I agreed and once again began to believe in fate and happy endings. Was Qadir the one? My first ever boyfriend? Every day, I walked out of Accounting tuitions, dressed in my finest culottes and more and more make-up to impress him. We would walk to Yummys, share banana splits and talk about school. This went on for a week. I spent my days listening to sappy Michael Bolton and Celine Dion while reading borrowed Sweet Dreams. Finally at the end of the week, he told me he had something to ask me. Instead of a date he wanted to know if I could set him up with Aliya. She had been flirting with him heavily and he had heard that I was once close to her. It took every bone in me to force a fake yet composed smile. Don’t really remember what he said after that, I had numbed myself only to prevent the tears that threatened to pop out. But, as promised, I decided to speak to Aliya after two years.
“What did he say? Does he like me? Does he think I’m pretty? When does he plan on doing this?”
“I don’t know Aliya,” I replied with irk “He just wanted me to find out if you were interested.”
“Sure, sure…go ahead and tell him I am.”
“But do you like him, he’s a friend, I don’t want him to get hurt…”
“Come on Padash, just tell him I like him ok?”
“But do you?”
“Padash, just tell him to ask me out and that he should do it in front of the school. Something like what Amir did for Shela!” Despicable.
A week later, Qadir bought her a bag of a hundred chilli chips. The school was in a frenzy with gossip of the thoughtful and dramatic gesture. (Where did these brothers get their romancing tips from? Bollywood?). A week later, the school was once again in a frenzy. Gossip of how Aliya had rejected him. My last closure!
Now you may have guessed, I never did get to marry into that family. Luckily!
Aliya…is now married. She’s now twice my size and although we send each other an annual email or two, her comments are now laced with jealousy and envy. Still brutal, still callous. Her last email was something like “I cant believe you’re the one living the exciting life in New York and I’m the married one in Pakistan.” Another one “You look so GOOD, I would never ever have imagined you to be this sexy!” Lets just say, this time around I make sure I put her in her place.
Shela… also now married. We’re still good friends and although we live in different parts of the world we call each other every now and then. From what I can tell, she was never in love with the man she is now married to but did it to settle down. Still, her husband adores the ground she walks on and I’m glad because she deserves nothing less.
Babar…is now a bearded Mullah. Yes, after college, he became a born again fundo. He now lives with a hijabi wife. And I bet the sex is just plain boring.
Amir….no clue what he’s up to. He never found a girlfriend the entire time I knew him (He should have asked me) so I hope he at least found a wife. The arranged marriage bit should have worked in his favor.
Qadir…he and I once spoke briefly on Orkut two years ago. He too is married. To Nida. Years later, they reconnected and he finally noticed the woman beautiful both inside and out. I’m happy for her.
Me…well you all already know I how I ended up. So no description needed there. But what I do want to add is that we learn from everything in our lives both good and bad. We take experiences, own them and use them to shape the person we are to become. I learned something from all three of those brothers. How men think with the four-inches between their legs. I learned something from Shela too. How innocence if genuine can be a very endearing quality. I learned something from the over-shadowed Nida. To never give up hope because some of us do get our happy ending. Last but not least, I learned a lot from Aliya. How to flirt, how to seduce, how to handle men. How to decide what you want, go for it and make sure you get it any way you can. But most of all I learned that I could do all of those things without hurting a friend in the process.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Happy Effing VD to you too!!!
I know, I know. I sound like one of those bitter, lonely girls who always wear black on February 14th and spend their day talking about how much they detest heart shaped chocolates, the color red, stuffed animals and that certain shameless naked baby flying around with a bow and arrow (where the hell is your mother cupid baby? Someone needs to call social services on her behind.) I have just NEVER enjoyed Valentines Day. Granted, this year, “happy couples” around me went on movie dates to watch “He’s just not that into you”! Ironic much? And am I bitter?
Why Yes!
You see V. Day and I have never gotten along. If I ever were in a relationship, my boyfriends and I would always get into an argument exactly around the month of February so yes I missed out on those candle-lit dinner dates, movie nights and long cuddling sessions on February 14th. Well there was that one time in my A-levels when I asked an old crush to be my valentine (he was probably only attracted to the fact that I had the reputation of being a ‘loose churucter type’ girl). He was already engaged and claimed to love his fiancé. And yes, I always knew that but I figured ‘what the heck”. What a sad valentine, that turned out to be. When he picked me up in his car, his backseat was layered with roses. My heart melted as I got in the car and told him “he shouldn’t have”. He told me he hadn’t. Those flowers were for his fiancé! All he had for me was a lousy rose. Still, we went back to his friend’s house, made out like idiots on the couch and then he dropped me home in time to take his fiancé out to a candle-lit dinner. No sermons needed here, save them.
This year wasn’t a bad valentine. I have come to the conclusion that Valentines Night is the best night to pick up men. The bars are packed with desperate singles. The pick of the litter! They promise themselves they will buy you a drink, woo you, introduce you to their friends and parents, marry you, have kids and then take you out to watch “He’s just not that into you” next year instead of drinking away their misery at a dive bar. All those fantasies are chucked out of the window when reality of February 15th hits next morning and you quietly sneak out of his apartment to rush home and get ready for work. That relationship ends, a few hours later. You and your “ex” of one night then avoid the same bar for the next month.
Anyway, as I sit here on an empty hotel room bed in Seattle, I am wondering whether to go out and flirt with strangers. I could go down to the hotel bar where all the other special assistants and ad execs are getting liquored up. They have been hungrily eyeing me around the conference all day while fidgeting with their wedding rings. My rule there is simple. Never hook up with work people, only enjoy the attention by playing hard to get. That way they only hunger more for you and you are the topic of lust-filled conversations of all the suited men at conference lunches and lobby bars. Comments like “Dude, did anyone get the lowdown on that exotic chick? What is she? Spanish? Indian?” And while they talk, I hook up with strangers at another bar instead. You don’t ever see them again. At the end of the day, here I am, in my room. On a large king size bed, writing about how much I hate valentines day and the month of February for that matter.
So I am going to do something which someone (an overpaid quack) once told my friend to do to find closure from all her failed relationships. Write about all the men idiots who came and went in my life. (Note: Stupid one-night mistakes like fiancé boy are excluded from this list!)
Irfan
When: 3rd grade.
How: After being made to sit all year with the “booger eater girl” in class, boys and girls were finally allowed to sit together. I was assigned next to Irfan. A handsome boy (for a 3rd grader). His stud credit included that he was pathan, had never puked in class nor peed his pants. I bet he grew up to be quite the stud and I am sure women eventually chased him around. To those girls I say “I had him first, bitches”. Anyway, I was young and had seen far too many Indian movies and wanted to say “Rahul I love you” to a boy too. There weren’t many Rahul’s in Pakistan so I settled on Irfan. By now, he is probably a feudal lord, married to a cousin with 3 or 4 kids and a big belly. I don’t quite remember how our relationship began but somewhere between English period and Social studies we said “I love you” a few times. We then, shared Fanta and Shezan bottles under a tree. He also blew kisses at me when we were punished. And then just like that he dumped me for a game of King Stop. Fine, I agree, I was an overweight and annoying girl myself but what boy leaves a girl for a group of boys and a ball? Then again…he was pathan! So maybe he isn’t married. Maybe he lives down the street from me in Chelsea and dances to Madonna and Britney. Who knows these days!
Math Teacher
When: 6th Grade
How: Okay this wasn’t really a relationship. As much as an illicit affair with a teacher in the 6th grade would make my life that much more interesting but all my advances were simply unsuccessful. I’m sure he too is married now and old enough for Viagra. When I first laid eyes on him and fell in love he was in his late twenties. I thought about him each time I watched Lamhe and The Little Mermaid. I was madly in love, he was totally oblivious. Later when I switched schools, I prank called him for a year straight and pretended to be a much older woman interested in meeting him. He finally agreed that if I could find a place for our x-rated rendezvous he was ready. Later when I told him who I was and how much I loved him, he rescinded his offer. He thought of me as nothing but a “student far too young for him.” I was heartbroken yes, but I wiped away my tears, left immediately for a boring family wedding and never looked back.
Sharjeel the Cousin
When: 8th Grade.
How: One boring night of playing chuppan chupaee with my cousins in Lahore Sharjeel and I decided to hide under the bed together. Let me be the first to say that Sharjeel was by no means attractive. He was the nerd among us cousins, the one all the other boys bullied. But under the bed that night we began to neck. It led to many frequent necking sessions. In hindsight, I was doing Sharjeel a huge favor. For a fatso kid with acne instead of skin, he was getting plenty of play from a member of the opposite sex. It began as innocent experimentation and discovery between the two of us. Both almost reaching puberty, we practiced our kissing skills on each other every chance we got. In the afternoons when everyone slept, we hid behind pillars and grazed our lips. At nights when we played hide and seek, we explored each other in dark corners. It was awkward kissing really. Rubbing of lips with eyes wide open. Trying to imitate the movies. And then somewhere along the way, I surmised that Sharjeel and I were now a couple. Immediately, I began to plan the rest of our lives together. Part of it came with the desperation of just wanting a boyfriend. I was in the 8th grade by then and so desperately needed a boyfriend. I was envious of all my other prettier friends and their boyfriends. I helped them sneak out of school to go on dates. I went to Anybodys with them to buy – yes you know it – valentine gifts. So, I decided all on my own and then told all my friends that I was dating a cousin called Sharjeel. He had no idea, till the summer of my 9th grade when Sharjeel told me about his girlfriend during one of our make out sessions.
“But I thought I was your girlfriend?” I asked like an idiot.
“No way. Why would you think that?” was the reply I received.
Crushed and heartbroken, especially because I was the cause for his self esteem boost. No longer an awkward, fat boy before, he now walked around like some sex-god who knew all about “second base”. Anyway, Sharjeel is now married to one of his many sweethearts. She is quite a looker to be honest. I attended the wedding – which took place just a few months ago - and enjoyed how all of his friend asked him about his “hot cousin” Padash. Yes my dear cousin Sharjeel, I too was once a fat, awkward girl who turned out to be a looker. Anyway, my ex/my cousin is now settled with his new wife and works a six figure job in Silicon Valley. When his bimbo wife hugs me and tells me how pretty I am, I’m tempted to turn around and say “Yeah sweetie, I taught your husband how to kiss so you can thank me for that too.” Instead I hug her back.
Neighbor Ahmed
When: O-Levels
How: So, of course. I was not always the hot clubutaunt from the Bronx. I actually came from a modest, conservative household. My female cousins enjoyed reading Urdu digests and listening to FM 100 in their past time. I’m glad I rebelled because I do not see myself living the lives they currently live. Popping out babies after their 4-day dream wedding. A husband they had never met or slept with before. Proposed by mother-in-laws instead of men. Yet, do at Rome as the Romans do and in my Rome, girls read dumb Afsanas and giggled at 25 rupee rented Indian movies. Naturally, after reading an afsana myself, I decided to give the old, traditional Pakistani romance a try. I initiated a rooftop romance with my neighbor to kill boredom. He wasn’t that bad looking to be honest. I guess you could call him an uglier version of Salman Ahmed from Junoon. He used to live – I think it was more like house-sit – next door. He was there, I was bored. Smiles led to an exchange of phone numbers and we began to talk. (I never gave him my number, I only called him). He was quick to fall in love with me. Back then, boys and girls fell in love with voices on the phone all the time. They also embarked on serious relationships after a song dedication at some stupid school meena-bazaar. I wasn’t very proud of what I had started with this guy so I never really told any of my friends. He thought it was a full fledged relationship headed for marriage. I knew I had a mess on my hands. Still we talked on the phone regularly. He always insisted on meeting, I always made up excuses. On my O-levels farewell, as all my other girlfriends snuck out of school with their handsome boyfriends Ahmed and I planned to do the same. Instead, I danced in a sari all night with my friends and when I got home, I cancelled on him. The disappointment in his voice was pitiable but I just couldn’t bring myself to see or kiss someone I wasn’t even remotely attracted to. He moved to another neighborhood a few days later. Although he was going to send me a letter with his new phone number, he never did. I guess he realized that I really wasn’t waiting for that letter. He made it easy because I hate dumping a guy. We saw each other once again when I was on my way home from Economics tuitions and saw him on the side of the road with his car broken down. I told my driver to help him as I pretended to read a book in the backseat. From the corner of my eye, I could see Ahmed stare with his mouth open. I knew he wanted to say something but couldn’t. I preferred it that way. Once his car was fixed, I smiled and waved at him as my driver pulled away. He waved back. I can still remember that look of longing in his eyes. Sorry Ahmed, I hope you found a woman who loved you back!
My first real boyfriend Akbar
When: A-levels
How: Before Akbar, I had never really dated a guy. Lord knows I wanted to, I just couldn’t meet someone. I was told I had a very pretty face but was always on the heavy side. Although I rebelled from my conservative family by sneaking out to dance parties and Muddy’s Café with my group of pretty and popular female friends, I was forever single. That finally changed in my A-levels. I met Akbar through my friend Afia. Afia (There is a whole story there) maybe someday I will share it. Anyway, she was the one who introduced me to Akbar. She had met him on the internet and quickly decided he did not take home enough income to be worthy of her gorgeous looks. Instead she passed him on to me. I fell for Akbar when we all met for dinner (I fell for most guys I met at the time.) Akbar was cute. Not anyone I would write home about but apparently he immediately recognized me. His father had once worked for my father. Apparently, my father had used his contacts to find Akbar a job as a favor to his dad. Once when they sat in the drawing room buttering up my father for his connections, I had walked in to inform my father that I was going out with my friends. One year later, he sat on a table with me and immediately jumped at the possibility of dating the fat girl with the rich father. Maybe he thought it would open more doors in his career. Who knows? I was young and stupid. We began talking on the phone and immediately became a couple. Our relationship lasted a total of nine months. Those nine months included a total of 6 dates (dinner, gifts and heavy making out in his Suzuki on a dark street, at least it wasn’t a Vespa). It also included my first attempt of loosing my virginity but Akbar had some…let’s just say…short comings he had to deal with. It was not long before he began to get on my nerves. He claimed he loved me. I, on the other hand had only jumped at the prospect of having a man to call my boyfriend. Nine months and many arguments later, he finally dumped me for another internet girl. I was not heartbroken at all. Good riddance. Afia told me over cigarettes later that night that Akbar was an infamous internet whore. He had been on several dates with hotchick17, cruisergal64 and the list just went on. I laughed it off. The next time I ran into him was at a party many years later. It was junior year of college and I was home for the holidays. By then I had also lost all my weight and had become quite the hottie. Our conversation at the party was very cordial – almost cold from my side, his words filled with lust – as he continued to compliment me and begged to see me again. When I politely declined, he left the party to take his wife out for their second wedding anniversary. Men are dogs…that’s why I only keep them around as pets.
The Married Politician
When: A-levels second year.
How: Not going to say much here. Although he is no longer married, he is still a politician. I know there is no such thing as a scandal for a public figure in Pakistan. I mean look at Zardari – he nearly boinked all of Lollywood – and he is still running or crashing our country. So I will make this one short. His son was a year junior to me in school. Once when he came to pick his son up from school, I flirted. He flirted back. I got his Paktel number. (Remember those big old mobiles) When we finally spoke on the phone, I freaked out. I had just finished reading “My Feudal Lord” By Tehmina Durrani and was in no mood to be a battered woman right before leaving for an excellent liberal arts college in the States. He liked his women barely legal and with a few extra pounds. Duh, I was a dream girl for him. The week before I headed off to the states for college, his emails bordered on the verge of begging. To be honest, the fact that he was married was never a deterrent for me. If anything, that was the intrigue. Besides, his wife was a spoilt begum who had looked me up and down with disdain during a parent-teacher meeting. The affair was payback. Two days before I headed off to college, I agreed to meet him. He took me to a room at PC and we made love. We also spent the next two hours talking. He was a nice man trapped in an unhappy marriage. He wanted to shower me with gifts and I would have liked that but I was on a plane headed off to a new life. We emailed back and forth and he even made plans to come see me in America. But by then, I had embarked on a new life, so I set him up with Afia who got a brand new wardrobe out of it. She apparently also broke his heart. Although I am sure, there were plenty of other young, chubby girls because his infidelities eventually led to a divorce from snooty begum. He and I are still good friends. He thinks I am now utterly gorgeous but hates that I have lost all my weight. Still, we are good platonic friends and always meet up for coffee or dinner when I am home. We even share relationship advice.
Mike from Philly
When: Freshman year of college.
How: Mike was a holiday romance. A summer fling. The best. The kind we always dreamt of and read about in cheesy Danielle Steel novels. It was the summer after my freshman year. My aunt lived in Philadelphia and I would often stay with her during breaks. That summer, my parents had decided to come up to the States too. We were to road trip across the country and see all our old, distant relatives. My mother and Khala would often get on my nerves when they sat and talked about family gossip, tried recipes and drama endings. For me it was all so boring and trite. Instead, I would hop on one of the septa buses and head down to a café on South Street. There, I would read a book, people watch and enjoy a latte of every different flavor. I met Mike at that café. Busy reading James Joyce’s “The Dead” he looked up and smiled a few times. I flirted right back. We talked about my book: “The Road” by Jack Kerouac and then he asked if I would like to meet him for coffee. I didn’t get a chance to meet him for a while since my parents and I were embarking on our little road trip but I promised I would email him as soon as I got back. That road trip sure started off rough. My first private conversation with Mama resulted in her bursting into tears because she had discovered all my old love letters from Akbar. I denied it all and promised her that it was a big misunderstanding. She believed me or just wanted to. Still, I battled with the guilt and instead of becoming the pious little girl I promised her I would become; I immediately emailed Mike when I got home. I just needed someone to talk to. I was also sure that Mike and I would not go beyond a first date. On that first date, I showed up dressed in a tank top and leather pants while he wore a polo and Khaki shorts. Mismatched terribly, we still went to the Ritz and watched “East is East”. Later we grabbed pizza slices and made out in the rain. He was the perfect distraction from my guilty misery so we dated the entire summer. Every Wednesday, I would lie to my parents that I was going out with Donna. (Donna helped me with the lie) and I would go on a date with Mike. We watched some great movies “Croupier”, “Groove” and “My Beautiful Launderette”. Some evenings, we even spent the entire evening in his bed. It was a little awkward at times because he still shared the condo with his ex-girlfriend. Anyway, the relationship ended with the summer. I returned to college many pounds lighter, a new haircut and a fresh start. There were many more interesting interactions between the two of us after but I cant go into much detail since it would take too many pages. Some filmy drama, lets just say. Regardless, every now and then we will meet at Samosa; our favorite Indian restaurant in Philly to catch up on our lives. He is much older and gray now. He was in a very serious relationship with a Thai girl for a while. However the last time I met him, he said he was about to end it. I wish him the best always.
Christian the playboy
When: Junior year of college
How: This lasted only a semester. We never really dated but slept with each other a lot. I liked him. My friends hated him. He also slept with every girl he met. I still see him around because he too lives in NYC now. He has since tamed down. Old age maybe? Still he tries to bed me every time he sees me. But after that one time when I had gone back to his “place” only to be interrupted by a realtor to realize it wasn’t his “place” after all; I keep our greetings formal and distant. He was never the speechwriter for the president he claimed to be either. His career involves waiting on tables and writing orders instead of speeches. I always knew he lied but he was just so damn good in bed!
Mustafa My First Heartbreak
When: Junior year of college also. (A tough year for me).
How: It always happens when you least expect it. When life is perfect and you think you have it all. A man comes right over and messes it all up. Breaks your heart into pieces and leaves you angry and bitter. Why? Before him, I never needed a man. After him, I always knew there would be a crack in my heart. I am beginning to sound pathetic now, so I’ll get straight to the point. He was a Pakistani. I usually don’t date my own kind since I am least attracted to Pakistani men. Yet, a Pakistani man broke my heart. The irony of it all. His name was Mustaffa and I knew him slightly when I was a kid. He was my older cousin’s friend in Fsc when I was merely a fifth grader. I was the cute, chubby cousin they used to tease. Somewhere along the way many years later, I heard from my cousin that he had left for the states for an MBA. I neither knew nor cared. He was always just Mustafa bhai to me. Fast forward to junior year of college. My best friends Jenny and Julie (sound like quite a pair don’t they?) had come over to visit me in Philly during fall break. I was excited to see them and we were out at a club when I ran into Mustafa after all those years. He was checking me out for a long time and wondering if I was a Pakistani just like him. When we finally recognized each other, he could not stop saying “Oh my God, Look at you. Are you really that little Padash I used to bug? You have grown up so much. You really grew up to be quiet a beauty?” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wasn’t complaining. In fact, I myself was amazed with how handsome he now was. Our relationship began that December when I was home from college. In just the few days, I had fallen madly in love. Not a great feeling, I tell you. Makes you weak and makes you do dumb things. I was such a mess in love. Visited him a few times hoping it would all fall into place till finally one day we had the talk. “He loved me but he was not in love with me.” Shattered, it took me years to get back on my feet with many rebounds in the process. I think I am now officially over him only because I have not seen him for several years. According to his facebook page (which I did stalk, don’t judge) he is now married to a cousin and has two kids. NEXT!
Richard the Morman
When: Age 23.
How: My second major heartbreak. I was working my first job in New York City. An insignificant administrative assistant for an ad exec hoping to work my way up the management ladder. I had my eyes set on the personal assistant position, which allowed more travel, more respect and less menial tasks. Still I had a job, I looked beautiful, loved my friends and was having the time of my life. Once again, another man enters and ruins it all. This time it was Richard and I had no idea he was a Mormon. An attractive man but not someone who would immediately catch my attention. Too blonde hair, blue eyes, farmer boy for me. I like my men a little more rough around the edges. But you know what they say, you always fall for the ones that are never physically your type. To be honest he wasn’t even mentally my type. One of the most conservative men I had ever met, when we first talked he told me he dumped his Latin girlfriend of 3 years for dancing on a speaker at a club. “Who does she think she is? A stripper?” I decided never to share my past professions with him. He would often see me out at bars and at parties. He had told many of his friends how he thought I was the sexiest thing he had ever laid eyes on and that he was too shy to introduce himself. For a girl, who had spent a majority of her life as the fat asexual best friend to pretty, popular girls in high school school; a comment like that means the world. Still, I wasn’t at all interested in a boring, old-fashioned blonde. I only enjoyed the attention. Milked it for a year until we began to talk and I fell immediately head over heels. He dumped his Latina girlfriend the day after meeting me. After that, I followed him around like an idiot and on valentines day 2004 – that evil, evil day – I confessed my love for him. I should have known better. Within days, he was back with his ex. I was devastated. The next day I was promoted and spent the next year traveling all around the country. But at every subway, metro, Marta, every airport waiting lounge, on every five-star hotel bed; I just couldn’t keep him out of my mind. I still see him around and we never say a word to each other. It is awkward and still hurts. Long story, will get into details some other time. But for now he is dating another Latina. She is nowhere near as foxy as I am and is probably miserable in love. I would much rather be single than wake up confused and in love with a man like Richard. Peace out!
Dickie My longest Relationship
When: The past 3 years
How: At first, he was simply one of the many rebounds from Richard. After the heartbreak, I distracted myself in the arms of strangers from clubs and bars. Most of it was to break another’s heart. As bad as it sounds but that’s what made it easier. I broke heart after heart. A vicious cycle, but that’s how it happens. They go on to break other hearts out of spite and soon you have the entire city walking around with broken hearts. Richard was going to be just another one-night stand, nothing else. I walked into a bar with my friends. He seemed semi-attractive. We spent the next sixteen hours in bed and when he dropped me home the next evening, he gave me his number. I gave him mine too even though I had no intention of ever calling him back. A week later, we met for pancakes on a night I came home hungry from clubbing. We ended up back at his place, calling in sick at work and staying in bed. This continued for a while. He was a man always at my beck and call. It didn’t matter when I called him or for what. He was there to oblige. The first year I did not commit. He stayed strong and had already confessed he had fallen for me. Two years and several dinner dates later, we finally became a couple. It was a good two years and I got used to having him around. Our Saturday and Sunday brunches when we sleepily woke up together in the afternoons. Going to concerts. Reading the paper in bed together. He was always there to help me with everything I ever needed. He often prefaced it by saying “what I wouldn’t do for you.” But soon it became strained. He was older and ready for the next steps in his life. Steps which involved moving in, marriage, meeting families. I liked my own space, I’m definitely not ready for marriage and my parents would die if I brought home a white man. So, on New Years Eve 2007, we decided to end it. I have nothing but love for him. We are still on good terms. However, I have told him that we should meet as less as possible because you just cant jump into a platonic friendship after three years of dating. I think he is seeing a new girl now too. The bimbo I saw him with a week after we broke up. Recently he invited me to a party at his house. I went and enjoyed the hungry attention from all his male friends. I made sure not to flirt back though because I’m classy not trashy. I really did not want to hurt Dickie. The girl ran around his house clearing up tables (something I never did when we were dating). It’s obvious they are dating, I just don’t know why he continues to insist that he is not. Maybe he thinks it will hurt me. Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin any chances of us getting back together. But it’s too late now. I wish him all the best.
So here I am. Out of town on a work conference with my boss. In yet another comfy bed. The large windows on my hotel room paint a pretty picture of downtown Seattle. Bright, enticing. Full of single men, who I can meet and flirt with and satiate their fantasies for exotic woman. When I get back home, I have a date with a man whom I have met him a few times. Recently I agreed to go on a date with him. The only problem is that I can’t remember his name for the life of me. If his name doesn’t come to me by next weekend, I am cancelling the date. There is no polite way to ask your date what his name is. What do I say? I forgot? Suggestions dear readers? Anyway, it is now 10pm. I have found a new surge of energy in me. I am in a new city. No one knows me here. I don’t have to be up till nine tomorrow and even then, I have stocked my hotel room fridge with enough Red Bull to keep me going. So now, I am going to jump in the shower, get dressed in my sexy black mini-skirt, call a cab and head over to a downtown bar. Maybe I won’t come home alone tonight. Maybe this bed wont be empty tonight. When morning comes, I will tell the man to leave and throw his number in the trash. An end to another great relationship. The drama free kind. No heartbreaks. ;)
Why Yes!
You see V. Day and I have never gotten along. If I ever were in a relationship, my boyfriends and I would always get into an argument exactly around the month of February so yes I missed out on those candle-lit dinner dates, movie nights and long cuddling sessions on February 14th. Well there was that one time in my A-levels when I asked an old crush to be my valentine (he was probably only attracted to the fact that I had the reputation of being a ‘loose churucter type’ girl). He was already engaged and claimed to love his fiancé. And yes, I always knew that but I figured ‘what the heck”. What a sad valentine, that turned out to be. When he picked me up in his car, his backseat was layered with roses. My heart melted as I got in the car and told him “he shouldn’t have”. He told me he hadn’t. Those flowers were for his fiancé! All he had for me was a lousy rose. Still, we went back to his friend’s house, made out like idiots on the couch and then he dropped me home in time to take his fiancé out to a candle-lit dinner. No sermons needed here, save them.
This year wasn’t a bad valentine. I have come to the conclusion that Valentines Night is the best night to pick up men. The bars are packed with desperate singles. The pick of the litter! They promise themselves they will buy you a drink, woo you, introduce you to their friends and parents, marry you, have kids and then take you out to watch “He’s just not that into you” next year instead of drinking away their misery at a dive bar. All those fantasies are chucked out of the window when reality of February 15th hits next morning and you quietly sneak out of his apartment to rush home and get ready for work. That relationship ends, a few hours later. You and your “ex” of one night then avoid the same bar for the next month.
Anyway, as I sit here on an empty hotel room bed in Seattle, I am wondering whether to go out and flirt with strangers. I could go down to the hotel bar where all the other special assistants and ad execs are getting liquored up. They have been hungrily eyeing me around the conference all day while fidgeting with their wedding rings. My rule there is simple. Never hook up with work people, only enjoy the attention by playing hard to get. That way they only hunger more for you and you are the topic of lust-filled conversations of all the suited men at conference lunches and lobby bars. Comments like “Dude, did anyone get the lowdown on that exotic chick? What is she? Spanish? Indian?” And while they talk, I hook up with strangers at another bar instead. You don’t ever see them again. At the end of the day, here I am, in my room. On a large king size bed, writing about how much I hate valentines day and the month of February for that matter.
So I am going to do something which someone (an overpaid quack) once told my friend to do to find closure from all her failed relationships. Write about all the men idiots who came and went in my life. (Note: Stupid one-night mistakes like fiancé boy are excluded from this list!)
Irfan
When: 3rd grade.
How: After being made to sit all year with the “booger eater girl” in class, boys and girls were finally allowed to sit together. I was assigned next to Irfan. A handsome boy (for a 3rd grader). His stud credit included that he was pathan, had never puked in class nor peed his pants. I bet he grew up to be quite the stud and I am sure women eventually chased him around. To those girls I say “I had him first, bitches”. Anyway, I was young and had seen far too many Indian movies and wanted to say “Rahul I love you” to a boy too. There weren’t many Rahul’s in Pakistan so I settled on Irfan. By now, he is probably a feudal lord, married to a cousin with 3 or 4 kids and a big belly. I don’t quite remember how our relationship began but somewhere between English period and Social studies we said “I love you” a few times. We then, shared Fanta and Shezan bottles under a tree. He also blew kisses at me when we were punished. And then just like that he dumped me for a game of King Stop. Fine, I agree, I was an overweight and annoying girl myself but what boy leaves a girl for a group of boys and a ball? Then again…he was pathan! So maybe he isn’t married. Maybe he lives down the street from me in Chelsea and dances to Madonna and Britney. Who knows these days!
Math Teacher
When: 6th Grade
How: Okay this wasn’t really a relationship. As much as an illicit affair with a teacher in the 6th grade would make my life that much more interesting but all my advances were simply unsuccessful. I’m sure he too is married now and old enough for Viagra. When I first laid eyes on him and fell in love he was in his late twenties. I thought about him each time I watched Lamhe and The Little Mermaid. I was madly in love, he was totally oblivious. Later when I switched schools, I prank called him for a year straight and pretended to be a much older woman interested in meeting him. He finally agreed that if I could find a place for our x-rated rendezvous he was ready. Later when I told him who I was and how much I loved him, he rescinded his offer. He thought of me as nothing but a “student far too young for him.” I was heartbroken yes, but I wiped away my tears, left immediately for a boring family wedding and never looked back.
Sharjeel the Cousin
When: 8th Grade.
How: One boring night of playing chuppan chupaee with my cousins in Lahore Sharjeel and I decided to hide under the bed together. Let me be the first to say that Sharjeel was by no means attractive. He was the nerd among us cousins, the one all the other boys bullied. But under the bed that night we began to neck. It led to many frequent necking sessions. In hindsight, I was doing Sharjeel a huge favor. For a fatso kid with acne instead of skin, he was getting plenty of play from a member of the opposite sex. It began as innocent experimentation and discovery between the two of us. Both almost reaching puberty, we practiced our kissing skills on each other every chance we got. In the afternoons when everyone slept, we hid behind pillars and grazed our lips. At nights when we played hide and seek, we explored each other in dark corners. It was awkward kissing really. Rubbing of lips with eyes wide open. Trying to imitate the movies. And then somewhere along the way, I surmised that Sharjeel and I were now a couple. Immediately, I began to plan the rest of our lives together. Part of it came with the desperation of just wanting a boyfriend. I was in the 8th grade by then and so desperately needed a boyfriend. I was envious of all my other prettier friends and their boyfriends. I helped them sneak out of school to go on dates. I went to Anybodys with them to buy – yes you know it – valentine gifts. So, I decided all on my own and then told all my friends that I was dating a cousin called Sharjeel. He had no idea, till the summer of my 9th grade when Sharjeel told me about his girlfriend during one of our make out sessions.
“But I thought I was your girlfriend?” I asked like an idiot.
“No way. Why would you think that?” was the reply I received.
Crushed and heartbroken, especially because I was the cause for his self esteem boost. No longer an awkward, fat boy before, he now walked around like some sex-god who knew all about “second base”. Anyway, Sharjeel is now married to one of his many sweethearts. She is quite a looker to be honest. I attended the wedding – which took place just a few months ago - and enjoyed how all of his friend asked him about his “hot cousin” Padash. Yes my dear cousin Sharjeel, I too was once a fat, awkward girl who turned out to be a looker. Anyway, my ex/my cousin is now settled with his new wife and works a six figure job in Silicon Valley. When his bimbo wife hugs me and tells me how pretty I am, I’m tempted to turn around and say “Yeah sweetie, I taught your husband how to kiss so you can thank me for that too.” Instead I hug her back.
Neighbor Ahmed
When: O-Levels
How: So, of course. I was not always the hot clubutaunt from the Bronx. I actually came from a modest, conservative household. My female cousins enjoyed reading Urdu digests and listening to FM 100 in their past time. I’m glad I rebelled because I do not see myself living the lives they currently live. Popping out babies after their 4-day dream wedding. A husband they had never met or slept with before. Proposed by mother-in-laws instead of men. Yet, do at Rome as the Romans do and in my Rome, girls read dumb Afsanas and giggled at 25 rupee rented Indian movies. Naturally, after reading an afsana myself, I decided to give the old, traditional Pakistani romance a try. I initiated a rooftop romance with my neighbor to kill boredom. He wasn’t that bad looking to be honest. I guess you could call him an uglier version of Salman Ahmed from Junoon. He used to live – I think it was more like house-sit – next door. He was there, I was bored. Smiles led to an exchange of phone numbers and we began to talk. (I never gave him my number, I only called him). He was quick to fall in love with me. Back then, boys and girls fell in love with voices on the phone all the time. They also embarked on serious relationships after a song dedication at some stupid school meena-bazaar. I wasn’t very proud of what I had started with this guy so I never really told any of my friends. He thought it was a full fledged relationship headed for marriage. I knew I had a mess on my hands. Still we talked on the phone regularly. He always insisted on meeting, I always made up excuses. On my O-levels farewell, as all my other girlfriends snuck out of school with their handsome boyfriends Ahmed and I planned to do the same. Instead, I danced in a sari all night with my friends and when I got home, I cancelled on him. The disappointment in his voice was pitiable but I just couldn’t bring myself to see or kiss someone I wasn’t even remotely attracted to. He moved to another neighborhood a few days later. Although he was going to send me a letter with his new phone number, he never did. I guess he realized that I really wasn’t waiting for that letter. He made it easy because I hate dumping a guy. We saw each other once again when I was on my way home from Economics tuitions and saw him on the side of the road with his car broken down. I told my driver to help him as I pretended to read a book in the backseat. From the corner of my eye, I could see Ahmed stare with his mouth open. I knew he wanted to say something but couldn’t. I preferred it that way. Once his car was fixed, I smiled and waved at him as my driver pulled away. He waved back. I can still remember that look of longing in his eyes. Sorry Ahmed, I hope you found a woman who loved you back!
My first real boyfriend Akbar
When: A-levels
How: Before Akbar, I had never really dated a guy. Lord knows I wanted to, I just couldn’t meet someone. I was told I had a very pretty face but was always on the heavy side. Although I rebelled from my conservative family by sneaking out to dance parties and Muddy’s Café with my group of pretty and popular female friends, I was forever single. That finally changed in my A-levels. I met Akbar through my friend Afia. Afia (There is a whole story there) maybe someday I will share it. Anyway, she was the one who introduced me to Akbar. She had met him on the internet and quickly decided he did not take home enough income to be worthy of her gorgeous looks. Instead she passed him on to me. I fell for Akbar when we all met for dinner (I fell for most guys I met at the time.) Akbar was cute. Not anyone I would write home about but apparently he immediately recognized me. His father had once worked for my father. Apparently, my father had used his contacts to find Akbar a job as a favor to his dad. Once when they sat in the drawing room buttering up my father for his connections, I had walked in to inform my father that I was going out with my friends. One year later, he sat on a table with me and immediately jumped at the possibility of dating the fat girl with the rich father. Maybe he thought it would open more doors in his career. Who knows? I was young and stupid. We began talking on the phone and immediately became a couple. Our relationship lasted a total of nine months. Those nine months included a total of 6 dates (dinner, gifts and heavy making out in his Suzuki on a dark street, at least it wasn’t a Vespa). It also included my first attempt of loosing my virginity but Akbar had some…let’s just say…short comings he had to deal with. It was not long before he began to get on my nerves. He claimed he loved me. I, on the other hand had only jumped at the prospect of having a man to call my boyfriend. Nine months and many arguments later, he finally dumped me for another internet girl. I was not heartbroken at all. Good riddance. Afia told me over cigarettes later that night that Akbar was an infamous internet whore. He had been on several dates with hotchick17, cruisergal64 and the list just went on. I laughed it off. The next time I ran into him was at a party many years later. It was junior year of college and I was home for the holidays. By then I had also lost all my weight and had become quite the hottie. Our conversation at the party was very cordial – almost cold from my side, his words filled with lust – as he continued to compliment me and begged to see me again. When I politely declined, he left the party to take his wife out for their second wedding anniversary. Men are dogs…that’s why I only keep them around as pets.
The Married Politician
When: A-levels second year.
How: Not going to say much here. Although he is no longer married, he is still a politician. I know there is no such thing as a scandal for a public figure in Pakistan. I mean look at Zardari – he nearly boinked all of Lollywood – and he is still running or crashing our country. So I will make this one short. His son was a year junior to me in school. Once when he came to pick his son up from school, I flirted. He flirted back. I got his Paktel number. (Remember those big old mobiles) When we finally spoke on the phone, I freaked out. I had just finished reading “My Feudal Lord” By Tehmina Durrani and was in no mood to be a battered woman right before leaving for an excellent liberal arts college in the States. He liked his women barely legal and with a few extra pounds. Duh, I was a dream girl for him. The week before I headed off to the states for college, his emails bordered on the verge of begging. To be honest, the fact that he was married was never a deterrent for me. If anything, that was the intrigue. Besides, his wife was a spoilt begum who had looked me up and down with disdain during a parent-teacher meeting. The affair was payback. Two days before I headed off to college, I agreed to meet him. He took me to a room at PC and we made love. We also spent the next two hours talking. He was a nice man trapped in an unhappy marriage. He wanted to shower me with gifts and I would have liked that but I was on a plane headed off to a new life. We emailed back and forth and he even made plans to come see me in America. But by then, I had embarked on a new life, so I set him up with Afia who got a brand new wardrobe out of it. She apparently also broke his heart. Although I am sure, there were plenty of other young, chubby girls because his infidelities eventually led to a divorce from snooty begum. He and I are still good friends. He thinks I am now utterly gorgeous but hates that I have lost all my weight. Still, we are good platonic friends and always meet up for coffee or dinner when I am home. We even share relationship advice.
Mike from Philly
When: Freshman year of college.
How: Mike was a holiday romance. A summer fling. The best. The kind we always dreamt of and read about in cheesy Danielle Steel novels. It was the summer after my freshman year. My aunt lived in Philadelphia and I would often stay with her during breaks. That summer, my parents had decided to come up to the States too. We were to road trip across the country and see all our old, distant relatives. My mother and Khala would often get on my nerves when they sat and talked about family gossip, tried recipes and drama endings. For me it was all so boring and trite. Instead, I would hop on one of the septa buses and head down to a café on South Street. There, I would read a book, people watch and enjoy a latte of every different flavor. I met Mike at that café. Busy reading James Joyce’s “The Dead” he looked up and smiled a few times. I flirted right back. We talked about my book: “The Road” by Jack Kerouac and then he asked if I would like to meet him for coffee. I didn’t get a chance to meet him for a while since my parents and I were embarking on our little road trip but I promised I would email him as soon as I got back. That road trip sure started off rough. My first private conversation with Mama resulted in her bursting into tears because she had discovered all my old love letters from Akbar. I denied it all and promised her that it was a big misunderstanding. She believed me or just wanted to. Still, I battled with the guilt and instead of becoming the pious little girl I promised her I would become; I immediately emailed Mike when I got home. I just needed someone to talk to. I was also sure that Mike and I would not go beyond a first date. On that first date, I showed up dressed in a tank top and leather pants while he wore a polo and Khaki shorts. Mismatched terribly, we still went to the Ritz and watched “East is East”. Later we grabbed pizza slices and made out in the rain. He was the perfect distraction from my guilty misery so we dated the entire summer. Every Wednesday, I would lie to my parents that I was going out with Donna. (Donna helped me with the lie) and I would go on a date with Mike. We watched some great movies “Croupier”, “Groove” and “My Beautiful Launderette”. Some evenings, we even spent the entire evening in his bed. It was a little awkward at times because he still shared the condo with his ex-girlfriend. Anyway, the relationship ended with the summer. I returned to college many pounds lighter, a new haircut and a fresh start. There were many more interesting interactions between the two of us after but I cant go into much detail since it would take too many pages. Some filmy drama, lets just say. Regardless, every now and then we will meet at Samosa; our favorite Indian restaurant in Philly to catch up on our lives. He is much older and gray now. He was in a very serious relationship with a Thai girl for a while. However the last time I met him, he said he was about to end it. I wish him the best always.
Christian the playboy
When: Junior year of college
How: This lasted only a semester. We never really dated but slept with each other a lot. I liked him. My friends hated him. He also slept with every girl he met. I still see him around because he too lives in NYC now. He has since tamed down. Old age maybe? Still he tries to bed me every time he sees me. But after that one time when I had gone back to his “place” only to be interrupted by a realtor to realize it wasn’t his “place” after all; I keep our greetings formal and distant. He was never the speechwriter for the president he claimed to be either. His career involves waiting on tables and writing orders instead of speeches. I always knew he lied but he was just so damn good in bed!
Mustafa My First Heartbreak
When: Junior year of college also. (A tough year for me).
How: It always happens when you least expect it. When life is perfect and you think you have it all. A man comes right over and messes it all up. Breaks your heart into pieces and leaves you angry and bitter. Why? Before him, I never needed a man. After him, I always knew there would be a crack in my heart. I am beginning to sound pathetic now, so I’ll get straight to the point. He was a Pakistani. I usually don’t date my own kind since I am least attracted to Pakistani men. Yet, a Pakistani man broke my heart. The irony of it all. His name was Mustaffa and I knew him slightly when I was a kid. He was my older cousin’s friend in Fsc when I was merely a fifth grader. I was the cute, chubby cousin they used to tease. Somewhere along the way many years later, I heard from my cousin that he had left for the states for an MBA. I neither knew nor cared. He was always just Mustafa bhai to me. Fast forward to junior year of college. My best friends Jenny and Julie (sound like quite a pair don’t they?) had come over to visit me in Philly during fall break. I was excited to see them and we were out at a club when I ran into Mustafa after all those years. He was checking me out for a long time and wondering if I was a Pakistani just like him. When we finally recognized each other, he could not stop saying “Oh my God, Look at you. Are you really that little Padash I used to bug? You have grown up so much. You really grew up to be quiet a beauty?” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I wasn’t complaining. In fact, I myself was amazed with how handsome he now was. Our relationship began that December when I was home from college. In just the few days, I had fallen madly in love. Not a great feeling, I tell you. Makes you weak and makes you do dumb things. I was such a mess in love. Visited him a few times hoping it would all fall into place till finally one day we had the talk. “He loved me but he was not in love with me.” Shattered, it took me years to get back on my feet with many rebounds in the process. I think I am now officially over him only because I have not seen him for several years. According to his facebook page (which I did stalk, don’t judge) he is now married to a cousin and has two kids. NEXT!
Richard the Morman
When: Age 23.
How: My second major heartbreak. I was working my first job in New York City. An insignificant administrative assistant for an ad exec hoping to work my way up the management ladder. I had my eyes set on the personal assistant position, which allowed more travel, more respect and less menial tasks. Still I had a job, I looked beautiful, loved my friends and was having the time of my life. Once again, another man enters and ruins it all. This time it was Richard and I had no idea he was a Mormon. An attractive man but not someone who would immediately catch my attention. Too blonde hair, blue eyes, farmer boy for me. I like my men a little more rough around the edges. But you know what they say, you always fall for the ones that are never physically your type. To be honest he wasn’t even mentally my type. One of the most conservative men I had ever met, when we first talked he told me he dumped his Latin girlfriend of 3 years for dancing on a speaker at a club. “Who does she think she is? A stripper?” I decided never to share my past professions with him. He would often see me out at bars and at parties. He had told many of his friends how he thought I was the sexiest thing he had ever laid eyes on and that he was too shy to introduce himself. For a girl, who had spent a majority of her life as the fat asexual best friend to pretty, popular girls in high school school; a comment like that means the world. Still, I wasn’t at all interested in a boring, old-fashioned blonde. I only enjoyed the attention. Milked it for a year until we began to talk and I fell immediately head over heels. He dumped his Latina girlfriend the day after meeting me. After that, I followed him around like an idiot and on valentines day 2004 – that evil, evil day – I confessed my love for him. I should have known better. Within days, he was back with his ex. I was devastated. The next day I was promoted and spent the next year traveling all around the country. But at every subway, metro, Marta, every airport waiting lounge, on every five-star hotel bed; I just couldn’t keep him out of my mind. I still see him around and we never say a word to each other. It is awkward and still hurts. Long story, will get into details some other time. But for now he is dating another Latina. She is nowhere near as foxy as I am and is probably miserable in love. I would much rather be single than wake up confused and in love with a man like Richard. Peace out!
Dickie My longest Relationship
When: The past 3 years
How: At first, he was simply one of the many rebounds from Richard. After the heartbreak, I distracted myself in the arms of strangers from clubs and bars. Most of it was to break another’s heart. As bad as it sounds but that’s what made it easier. I broke heart after heart. A vicious cycle, but that’s how it happens. They go on to break other hearts out of spite and soon you have the entire city walking around with broken hearts. Richard was going to be just another one-night stand, nothing else. I walked into a bar with my friends. He seemed semi-attractive. We spent the next sixteen hours in bed and when he dropped me home the next evening, he gave me his number. I gave him mine too even though I had no intention of ever calling him back. A week later, we met for pancakes on a night I came home hungry from clubbing. We ended up back at his place, calling in sick at work and staying in bed. This continued for a while. He was a man always at my beck and call. It didn’t matter when I called him or for what. He was there to oblige. The first year I did not commit. He stayed strong and had already confessed he had fallen for me. Two years and several dinner dates later, we finally became a couple. It was a good two years and I got used to having him around. Our Saturday and Sunday brunches when we sleepily woke up together in the afternoons. Going to concerts. Reading the paper in bed together. He was always there to help me with everything I ever needed. He often prefaced it by saying “what I wouldn’t do for you.” But soon it became strained. He was older and ready for the next steps in his life. Steps which involved moving in, marriage, meeting families. I liked my own space, I’m definitely not ready for marriage and my parents would die if I brought home a white man. So, on New Years Eve 2007, we decided to end it. I have nothing but love for him. We are still on good terms. However, I have told him that we should meet as less as possible because you just cant jump into a platonic friendship after three years of dating. I think he is seeing a new girl now too. The bimbo I saw him with a week after we broke up. Recently he invited me to a party at his house. I went and enjoyed the hungry attention from all his male friends. I made sure not to flirt back though because I’m classy not trashy. I really did not want to hurt Dickie. The girl ran around his house clearing up tables (something I never did when we were dating). It’s obvious they are dating, I just don’t know why he continues to insist that he is not. Maybe he thinks it will hurt me. Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin any chances of us getting back together. But it’s too late now. I wish him all the best.
So here I am. Out of town on a work conference with my boss. In yet another comfy bed. The large windows on my hotel room paint a pretty picture of downtown Seattle. Bright, enticing. Full of single men, who I can meet and flirt with and satiate their fantasies for exotic woman. When I get back home, I have a date with a man whom I have met him a few times. Recently I agreed to go on a date with him. The only problem is that I can’t remember his name for the life of me. If his name doesn’t come to me by next weekend, I am cancelling the date. There is no polite way to ask your date what his name is. What do I say? I forgot? Suggestions dear readers? Anyway, it is now 10pm. I have found a new surge of energy in me. I am in a new city. No one knows me here. I don’t have to be up till nine tomorrow and even then, I have stocked my hotel room fridge with enough Red Bull to keep me going. So now, I am going to jump in the shower, get dressed in my sexy black mini-skirt, call a cab and head over to a downtown bar. Maybe I won’t come home alone tonight. Maybe this bed wont be empty tonight. When morning comes, I will tell the man to leave and throw his number in the trash. An end to another great relationship. The drama free kind. No heartbreaks. ;)
Friday, June 11, 2010
Pen Pals!!!
Why yes!
So then, you probably also remember the controversy around allowing the internet in
Dario and I began corresponding on a regular basis. He seemed like a nice guy; grew up in a small American town and confessed that before he came to ASU, he had never met anyone from
Just as quickly as our complicated pen-pal romance blossomed, it fizzled too. I found myself with a new crush on a tall Irish lad at ISI so my cyber-love affair with an African-American freshman understandably took a backseat. Besides, he was a terrible email flirt. I mean sure I needed some practice too but he was just horrible! So anyway, years rolled by. I lost some more weight, became slightly – emphasis on the word slightly – more attractive by my A-levels. Had a few more crushes and a few failed romances at UCI and forgot all about Dario. After my A’s I headed off to a small liberal arts college to “discover myself” and break free off the protective bubble I always lived in. I was a young, sheltered girl ready to see the world and live a crazy life of anonymity. I made my plans for college. Plans to shave my head and dye my hair electric blue (yes I now realize those are two mutually exclusive idiocies but I never claimed to be the brightest bulb either). My plans also included dropping out of college after my freshman year and running away with a soul-mate with dreadlocks (and a moustache) to live in a hippie commune. I would sell handmade postcards on the beach and direct eccentric skits for a living like the Cockettes of
After I graduated, I moved to
In the beginning, it was awkward but what did we expect. We were mere strangers who had exchanged a few emails six years ago. During lunch, our conversation was very polite, peppered with questions about each other’s college majors, life in the city, Bronx (where I lived) and
A few weeks later I was headed home around 10pm after a boring dinner with some old college friends when my phone rang. It was Dario and he was drunk (later I would realize that alcohol was the least of his vices). When I told him I was on my way home to take myself to bed, he urged me to change my mind.
“Step away from the subway and come join me at the bar.” He continued to chant and within minutes, I went from yawning on the underground platform to a dark, dimly lit bar in
“Don’t worry sweetie” Dario would drone his words every morning after partying on a week night “All you have to do is show up!”
We became inseparable. Best friends! We had lunch together everyday at work where we people watched and played our favorite game of “if you could marry one guy on this street right now.” Luckily we had very different tastes in men, so we knew we would never fight over a man. During work, we entertained ourselves with instant messages and witty texts.
“Girl…remember that hot mess at the club last night” he would text.
“Girl…that poor soul was crying for a makeover.” I would text back.
Then there were happy hours after work. We would always promise ourselves a quick drink no longer than an hour, but each evening would end up on different dance floors and drug binged after parties until the wee hours of the morning. By daybreak, Dario and I would rehearse our voice mail messages to our bosses “Cough…cough…I wont be in till noon today…I think I have the flu.” The weekends we spent in all the over-priced yet mammoth dance clubs of
You see, partying came natural to Dario. It also helped that he was fueled by every drug known to man. At first I thought that cocaine was his only vice but soon I realized, he did not care what he shot up his nose or down his throat as long as it ensured a night crazier than the last. When Dario began using crystal meth, I did begin to show my concern. He immediately shunned me down. I realized that our friendship was based solely on fun nights of crazy partying that turned into mornings. That was it. Beyond that, I was never to preach or dispense any form of advice. I was to only laugh, giggle, pick fights with crazy drag queens and stumble home on subways at day-break with Dario next to me. I was to obediently follow my role as the good hag, nothing else.
Sometimes, I would sit and smile and think about our first ever email to each other in 96. How he talked about his freshman year classes and I went on about how much I hated my life. How I then dreamt of a chick-flick-ish, serendipitous romance between him and I. Serendipity, there was. Romance, not so much. Now, years later, we found each other in our own twisted version of a chick-flick. Dario had become more or less my soul-mate. Not the kind I could marry but lives are complicated. He was who I had settled with as the only man in my life. It did not matter though. If I ever stopped to think about such serious things, I was immediately whisked away to the fantasy world Dario and I had built around each other. Making memories that made us laugh. Always each other’s dates to work events, like the time we snuck out of a boring Christmas company party to go to a dingy bar where I spent all night dancing on a speaker in a sari. Men hovered around me and told me they loved me. Then, they slipped Dario their numbers. Sigh, refer to the earlier line I wrote about lives being complicated and all. Dario and I even took a vacation together. I had always wanted to visit
After we returned from
It was a similar after noon and I was walking home on a Sunday. I had called and left countless voicemails for Dario the past week and never heard back from him. Finally when my cell phone lit up with his number I frantically picked up.
“Dario! Where the hell are you?” I snapped.
“Hey girl…I don’t even know…I want to see you…what are you doing?” he slurred his words.
“Walking home from brunch. Have you found another job yet? You need to give those after parties up. They are dangerous.”
Dario immediately burst into tears and began to mumble on the phone about how horrible he felt. He had just woken up in a scary warehouse and wanted to see me. He felt dirty and exhausted.
We quickly made plans to meet outside his apartment building and I jumped on a train to
I took him back to my apartment and told him to shower. Once he got dressed in my Black BEBE shirt (he stretched it out, so I let him keep it) I took him down to a café and bought him lunch. He devoured the food within seconds and he informed me that he hadn’t eaten in days. Later, we walked back to my apartment so he could sleep on my couch for a few hours. It was evident that he had been up for a couple of days straight. I decided on taking a nap too and as we threw around cushions and lay our cheeks on our pillows, we began to talk. We used to call these our tail-end conversations. After nights of crazy partying would end we would both be too sleepy to make sense yet still exchanging a few words – which got increasingly unintelligible the more our eyes drooped. That day, we also exchanged a few words from my bed to his couch. I recall a “thanks” from him and probably a “Shut up” from me.
“Padash?” He whispered after a long bout of silence.
“Yes?”
“I promise I’m going to get help.” His words still a whisper.
I stayed silent. Too afraid that any wrong choice of words from me may change his mind. And then just like that, he fell asleep and I lay there listening to his snores get louder. I woke up two hours later, ate left-over Chinese, watched the Golden Girls, read, showered and went back to sleep. Dario continued to sleep and snore the entire time. I don’t know when he woke up but I assume it was in the middle of the night, because when I woke up for work the next morning, the couch was empty. Dario had scribbled the word “Thanx” on a post-it and stuck it on my fridge. I left for work hoping he was serious about getting help in overcoming his addiction.
He did. Although our calls to each other were not as frequent, when we did talk, he told me he had enrolled in a Narcotics Anonymous program at a local church. We met for lunch one day and he told me he was still unemployed but was much happier. He had become strangely more religious and I wondered if it was because his twelve-step program was in a church. We never ever went to happy hour or clubbing again. He said it was against the rules of his program to be around things that could trigger his addiction. I understood and wanted to support him as much as I could. When we did hang out and try to do movie nights at my apartment or go to a play, we realized we were forcing ourselves. Neither of us knew how to act around each other when we weren’t soaked in strobe lights on a dance floor or surrounded by carefree, beautiful strangers at an after party. So naturally, we became more and more distant. He began to volunteer and help out at the church and I busied myself with new friends. I tried to reach out to him as much as I could but also wondered if all his excuses of ‘prior commitments’ were just a cautious way to stay away from me. As much as I hated the possibility that I too had become one of his avoided triggers from the past, if it meant helping him overcome his addictions, I was okay with that.
We met again one time after that. This time it was on Dario’s insistence. We had dinner at a Tex-Mex place close to my house and as we sat in awkward silence and made small talk, he informed me that he had tested positive for HIV. An awkward silence ensued. What does one say at such a point? I know I stared at him blankly. Forced back tears which were more from shock than anything else.
“How do you feel?” Was all I could muster. The minute I said the words I cursed myself. Was that the best I could do?
“I’m much better now” He smiled “Thanks for asking.”
I asked him when he found out and he told me it was soon after he had slept on my couch and left a thank you note on my fridge. I asked him if it was the reason he had distanced himself from me and he told me he had distanced himself from the world to deal with the diagnosis. Then he touched my hand and said “But for what it’s worth, you’re the only person from my past that I don’t want to loose.” Seriously, that was all that mattered. Tears poured down my cheeks as he hugged me. I didn’t eat much that day and neither did he. It tore me apart that I was probably somewhere around him when he contracted the virus. It scared me. I wondered if it was at those countless after parties where I had left him talking to a handsome man because I was too tired to stay. I wondered if it was someone he had met at
“That’s not what’s important my dear” he pulled my cheeks as if I were a little baby “I lived a very risky lifestyle. This was bound to happen.”
I blamed myself for a very long time after that. If only I had stayed at those parties a little longer. If only I had brought him home and put him to bed instead of allowing him to run around the streets of
Two months later, I got an email from him. It was brief and to the point. It annoyed me because that’s what our relationship had now begun. He had emailed to inform me that he had accepted a job in
““PS: check out the email below, biotch =)”
I laughed through tears as I read his email at work. I read it again and again.
Underneath was that very first email that I had sent him. Years and years ago. 1996. A sheltered little naïve girl from Pakistan sending her very first email to a stranger asking to become pen pals. I was embarrassed at how hard I was trying to sound cool in my email. I wrote complete sentences with forced slang so he would agree to be my pen pal. It was one of the very first emails I received and was the only message in my yahoo inbox. Now, his email sat among a barrage of other emails – spam and legit – bringing back all those memories.
Now, almost four years since that day, I received an add request from him on facebook. As I surfed his pics and page, I learned how his life turned out. He is happily partnered with another handsome man and working for an AIDS non-profit in
“Girl! I better still be your one and only pen pal!”
His reply.
“Always, biotch!”
[1] Name has been changed to respect the individual’s privacy.
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