"BREAKING NEWS: Professor Ahmad Ghani is leaving his position as Management instructor at IBSA. It goes to show that most of his students are irked at the possible teacher change at the end of the semester, but they hope that the next teacher is someone more inclined towards relative grading. Who else hates U-curves?.... (Nitty Gritty, issue 702, Nov, 2014)

"Why is Hassan Shehryaar sketching on my IR course-book?" I popped in on Ruby, who was writing down grocery accounts. Hassan Shehryaar Yaseen (Or HSY) is one of Pakistan's best designers. He used to intern at Hayat's back when nobody knew his name. He still likes to hang out at our place occasionally, conferring with Mama over the future of fashion or something lofty of the sort. It's kind of crazy, but awe-inspiring, to imagine that contemporary dress styles for an entire country are being decided in our living room over Ruby's famous red velvet cookies.

"He needed paper urgently, and you're always leaving your books around, so serves you right..." She mutters back, pointing towards the kitchen, "Eat something substantial. Now."

I take a club sandwich to appease her. I love talking to Ruby. You hear all sorts of interesting things. I only have to raise an eyebrow at her to get her to spill details.

"You missed the Barbie parade today. Nadia needs botox. And Mawra needs personality..."

I stop nibbling at this information, "There was a Barbie parade? Why?"

"Sanam released her drawings earlier this year, online. They must have been better than last years' because, everyone seems eager to model them. They're courting her."

I can't believe I forgot that we have a nightmare coming up. A nightmare called Pakistan Fashion Week.

"Why does it happen every year Ruby? WHY?" I wailed in despair.

One of the biggest fashion events in the South Asian region, PFW is like the Cannes for Pakistani designers. Mama's team works overtime for months to put up a good enough show, our house becomes a reality TV episode with strange looking people running around pinning stuff on mannequins, and once, even on Chum Chum (that was the year one of Mama's producers had this brilliant idea of dressing up our cat for The Walk. Needless to say, it wasn't one of Chum Chum's finest TV moments.)

Why I hated all this you ask?

Because Mama tries to make all three of her children attend the opening and closing ceremonies. We're supposed to strut the red carpet, and participate in the commencement victory walk. We're supposed to do it with big smiles on our faces, and Mama's season designs on our bodies. Maria loves it because most years, she gets to wear something she made herself, and this is a chance for her to interact with other budding designers, who have fresher perspectives than veterans like my Mom. Zaif hasn't attended in a couple of years, because he has been busy with College (He is a senior at USC). I have no idea how Mama lets him get away with it. She doesn't even command him to return home from California anymore, for the past few years, he visits for a week occasionally, but rarely more than that.

And then there's me.

I hate dressing up.

I hate being pawed by Mama's hair-dressers and make-up artists, for pre-event primping.

I hate being in the limelight.

I hate cameras, and crowds.

The list goes on and on...

Over the years, I have come up with several creative reasons in order to skip this annual nightmare, but it never works. Mama always, ALWAYS finds loopholes in these excuses.

"You cannot be allergic to the color red Layla. Stop being ridiculous..."

"You don't have a quiz tomorrow, Layla. You are being home-schooled..."

"If Eminem were actually having a meet and greet in Karachi tomorrow, I'd know about it..."

"You've already have Chicken pox in your childhood, Layla. Now wipe off those marker dots from your neck..."

I have to think about creating a scene that can allow me some reprieve this year. Luckily I have a diabolical friend who can help me...

............

"I'm thinking about growing a beard." Asad strokes his baby smooth face, "Kinza called me adorable yesterday. Dunno if that works for me, I mean, puppies and kittens are adorable. Not men."

Kinza is his crush of the month.

There's a running joke around here, that all of Asad's crushes end up engaged, or married, the second he starts taking interest in them. Poor guy.

Azaan jokingly suggested renting Asad out to Rishta Aunties (Matchmaking females).

A perk of hanging out with these idiots is that I have a front row seat into the most fascinating of God's creations: The Male Mind. If anyone tells you that only women fuss over appearances, they are liars. Boys are just as, if not more insecure than girls about the littlest things. It's funny how all these generalizations are so deeply ingrained about the sexes in our culture.

Boys don't cry. Girls love dressing up.

Boys love violent things that blow up. Girls are terrible drivers....

Most of us ignore his beard crisis. Daniyal throws an empty coke can at him, and Pareeshae tries to convince him that adorable isn't a bad compliment. We're sprawled at our shaded spot near the football field. Exams have just ended.

"Yo. Do all of you have your tickets?" Azaan runs over panting. He and Faris were playing a one-on-one goalie match. His Neymar jersey is soaked with sweat, making his tanned arms glisten. He drops beside me, snatching my abandoned shawl to wipe his face and neck.

"Ew. Get away." I scramble awkwardly away from him. He grins sadistically, offering my shawl back, waving it around me, trying to get me to touch it. His hair sticking out in all directions, the metal stud in his left ear making him look like a long lost member of Greenday.

"Gross! You can keep my shawl. Forever dude. Seriously." I scowl at his antics wondering for the millionth time, why on earth I'm friends with him. He just ruined my favorite cashmere.

"Haha! I love watching you scowl. It's so cute. Like a kitten trying to be mean. Your glasses looking to ready to fall off the scrunched nose..."

"I'm mean." I raise my face threateningly, doing a secret eyebrow twitch that settles my glasses back where they belong.

"If you were even a couple of inches taller, that might have been effective." He smirked.

"Speaking of Shortstuff, have you heard this one, Hayat?" Omer looks up from his cellphone. He likes to surprise me with a new short/midget joke every time we meet.

"Yes yes, when it rains, I'm the last person to know. Ha. Ha." I stick my tongue out at him. My height has never bothered me. It was actually kind of advantageous as a gymnast. Less weight to lift and all that.

I've come to learn a valuable lesson during my mission to come "Out of my shell" as Maria would put it; it's that having a thick skin, will get people more comfortable around you. Not that there's absolutely anything wrong about being sensitive, but I think a big part of growing up is about being able to not take everything seriously

"Here comes your future wife." Omer suddenly nudges Azaan, grinning evilly at a couple of sophomore girls approaching us.

I recognized one of them as "The Slapper"- The girl who slapped Azaan in front of the cafeteria. Not being overly social, I just knew her by face. She was one of those "Everyone better look at me" type persons. With her relaxed long hair reaching her waist. It was salon-dyed with blonde-ish highlights, that just didnt look that good on her. Her friend's natural dark hair actually looked better in comparison. She dressed pretty non-conservatively for Pakistani and IBSA standards. Her diaphanous, pastel shirts tucked into skinny tights or jeans. I once overheard a guy comment that, "She leaves nothing for the imagination."

Azaan grimaces, but still grins in greeting when she draws near. DKNY shades hiding her face, her lipsticked mouth twisted in a pout.

"Wifey." Omer coughed under his breath, earning a glare in exchange.

"Tania! How's life, cuz?" Azaan booms out cheerfully.

I exchange a raised eyebrow with Shay. She jerks her head once. I'll tell you details later. I interpret.

"Ohmigah. Azzy. Shutup already! People will start thinking we're like, first cousins or something!" She replies in an annoyingly nasal voice. She turns to us next, "Hey folks. I'm his cousin's, other side cousin...got it?"

"Nobody gives a fuck, you bitch. Just go away." Faris' lazy drawl shocks me to the core. This is so uncharacteristic, I nearly ask him to repeat his sentence, to confirm that it came out of his mouth. Shay is similarly gaping.

"Hey. No name-calling, okay?" Azzy warns Faris, who just scowls, standing up, and kicking his abandoned football towards the field. It passes Tania with inches to spare,and she shrieks with horror, ranting about reporting Faris.

"Bite me." Is his response, as he takes off to shoot some more goals.

"I apologize for him. My brother was out of line." Daniyal steps forward guiltily. Tania just glares scathingly back at all of us.

"You should apologize." She huffs as though she is entitled to it. Turning moodily to Azaan, her tone softens, "I was wondering if you and your guys can be with us during the concert? You know what happened last year, the whole black-market ticket leaks and all...."

Azaan looks surprised at this. I see Asadomer grimacing and signalling No to each other.

"Uh. Yeah sure I guess. But just as friends you know." He emphasizes the word. "No weird instagram posts..."

She pouts at that, flipping back her long hair. I can see her tank-top strap clearly through the netted bodice, and I marvel at her superhuman, ability to not feel cold in December. Karachi is generally hot, but winters tend to get decently chilly by mid December.

"Okay. Thanks anyways." She leans forward to hug him. I giggle when Azaan tries to lean away awkwardly, failing to succeed. "I'm cold." She whispers nasally in his ear.

"Have you tried wearing clothes? Hmm? Bitch?" Faris calls out as he passes by, twirling his ball.

She retorts with an insult that turns my ears pink. What on earth is going on here?

"You can take this shawl." Azaan smiles sweetly at her, offering my abandoned cashmere to her. "Hayat doesn't like the color anymore."

She made a show of thanking me, draping the shawl uselessly around her elbows. I tried not to snort with laughter as she touched the sweaty thing.

By unspoken agreement, none of us mentioned Tania when she walked away.

"Did you buy tickets though?" Azaan tries to change the topic, as he rummages in his gym bag for snacks. His face lighting up as he withdraws a peanut butter Granola bar. Next he yanks out his Nikon and starts fiddling with the lens setting.

"I'm not going." Shay pipes up. She was braiding Syra's hair. I saw Faris turn and scowl when he heard this.

"Why aren't you going? This is the first concert of the year..." Faris' deep voice gives me pause. Shay blushed and dropped the pins she had stuck in her mouth. Interesting... I didn't know Faris had any opinion about any of us. He rarely made comments at all. He spoke about football, his accounting major subject (blah) on rare occasions, but that's pretty much it.

Azaan is subtly aiming and shooting pictures. I narrow my eyes at him, when I feel his lens zoom in on me.

"I have to go back home in a couple of days, to Islamabad." Shay smiles softly at him. "Winter break you know..."

Faris looks away as if he didn't hear her. Shay keeps shooting these furtive anticipatory glances towards him. Maybe waiting for him to say something. But he never does. He's done with the conversation. Weirdo.

"Layla you're coming right? I wanna see you all dressed up girl! You never let your hair down. Like literally!" Syra pipes in.

"I don't like parties. Or concerts." I shrugged. It was a nightmare, imagining the squished crush of humanity at rock concerts. I got palpitations just thinking about it. Mama will likely make a fuss about letting me go without guards, and I had no intention of drawing attention to myself, by being followed by "Khan". (Mama called all our drivers, and guards Khan. Regardless of their real names. It was culturally inappropriate, but they never corrected her)

"What do you mean you don't like concerts? I'm in the management committee, I worked my butt off to get sponsors for this! And my own friends are bailing out?" Azaan lowered his camera, scowling at me. "Do you know Atif waived half a million in performing fee, because of my persistent begging? and the rest of the proceeds go to charity."

"Yeah, Layla! How can you miss Atif Aslam on campus? This is just unnatural!" Shay and Syra expounded upon my idiocy.

I refrained from mentioning that I have seen Atif perform live dozens of time for Mama's society soirees. I have in fact, had dinners with him, and seen him try to learn sign language to flirt with Maria.

"I already booked tickets for all of you." Azaan whips out a brightly colored embossed card. I reluctantly grab it.

"It says Azaan Malik. On the back." I smirk wryly.

He snatches it back, and grabs a pen to scratch my name on the back instead.

"There you go. You have to be there Hayat. Period. Or I won't ever speak to you." He threatened.

"Promise?" I whisper gleefully. The rest of our group snickers at that.

"Your life would suck without me, baby."

"Is that Kelly Clarkson?"

"...Maybe..."

..............................

"Absolutely not. We have dress rehearsal on Friday." Mama looks up from her digital drawing board for a nano-second, before focusing on the Jumpsuit design she is perfecting.

I might have mentioned before that I have a short temper. Yeah. It takes little to rile me up. Mama's dismissing tone almost always does the trick. My inner Hulk is triggered. I'm Hulkayla now.

"I don't have to attend the rehearsal, as long as I'm showing up at the real thing!" I argued, not even caring that Mama's producer, and assistant designers were hovering around the home-based sketch studio Mama has on her floor of rooms.

"Layla. The answer is still no." her voice was barely a whisper, simmering with danger, "And since when did you start caring about partying? It's just a silly concert. If you like, I can ask Atif to perform at your birthday dinner..."

This is why I hate her sometimes. It happens time and time again. If I want to try a new gym someplace, She'll just have our personal gym remodeled. If I want to go see a movie with Maria, she'll just buy us a bigger screen for the home theater. If I want to go to a concert, she'll just resurrect Tupac from the dead, to come perform on our lawns. Typical. The only relative freedom I have is when I'm at University. Which is pretty suffocating.

She never wants me to experience new things. My life is a seemingly prettied up room, with everything mapped out by the "Designer" that is my Mother. All her talks about exploring life, and stepping out of my shell, are obviously horseshit. She doesn't want me to grow a backbone, or a decisive mind of my own. I'm nearly eighteen, and I've never been to a social event where I wasn't being watched like a hawk by Mama, or by a "Khan". She might as well have flushed all that therapy money down the loo. What's the point anyways?

"If you don't let me go to the concert, you can forget about my going to the "Silly" fashion walk of yours." I yell back, before defiantly walking away.

"Leave us." Mama barks suddenly to her minions. I halt, heart hammering. I hate fighting with her. She makes me feel inferior than an insect when she responds. My fingernails are digging painfully into my palms, as I try to control my anger.

"Sit." She forcibly steers me towards an oak settee, nudging me, none-too-gently to sit beside her. I wipe an errant tear away from my cheek furiously. Damned angry tears!

"Who're you going to the thing with?" She demands.

"Friends." I mutter sullenly.

"I want to meet them. Before you go." She orders magnanimously. I look up to see her mouth pursed disapprovingly. "Khan is going to follow you around."

"Ew. No!" I whine back, "The Concert is INSIDE campus Mama! How much safer can it be? I hate it! I hate the way you treat me like I'm made of glass!"

Mama's eyes harden at my protest. I know I'm pushing her too far, but the pent up anger inside me, is eager to get out. Despite protests from my friends, I have never attended any sort of extra-curricular parties and events on campus, because I was too scared to ask her, and because I'm generally, an awkward person at parties. Maybe it's spoiled, and bratty of me, but I think she owes me this one fun time.

"Layla. I don't have to remind you, just how fragile you are. So don't make me." Her words stun me. They pierced me someplace so secret, so close to me, that it hurt a lot...even just letting it sink in. She hasn't spoken to me about Musa in years. She never let me vent to her. She never had anything to say about it, and she preferred that I instead tell "A professional" who'd help me through my trauma. I always rationalized, that she's just not very communicative. Now, after all these years, the only thing she has to say about my past, is the fact that I can never get over it. I will always be "A victim". Maybe not broken. But definitely cracked; held together by the weakest of adhesives.

"You know Mama. I'm only as strong as you believe me to be." I sobbed harshly. "And right now, you just made me feel like I'm ten all over again. Hiding from him in your closet. Hallucinating about him in my sleep..."

Her neutral expressions never waver. Maybe Daddy was right. She really is made of stone.

"Invite your friends over to lunch tomorrow." She finally speaks, handing me a tissue from a dispenser on the wall. "Khan can drive you to campus on Friday. He will remain outside the premises at all times, so whenever you're ready to leave, you'll call him. You will also, keep your cellphone open at all times, Ruby will check in on you every hour while Maria and I are at the rehearsal."

I sniff noisily, as I nod slowly. Shuffling to my feet, I move towards the exit, when I hear her choked voice behind me.

"Laylee. I'm sorry. I was kind of upset at your Dad today."

I don't turn around. Letting her say things to my back. Maybe that's how she can actually make human-like conversation with her children. Without having to see their faces.

"Zaif wanted to be there for PFW this year...but your Dad didn't arrange a jet, and security on time...I-I miss him. It's been 8 months since I last saw my son. If it weren't for Hayat's, I would have made more visits...."

I nod once, refusing to give her the satisfaction of accepting her apology. I may not look like her...But I'm her daughter after all.

..................
Author's note:

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