"Two weeks worth of winter break seems too less when it comes to recovering from the fall semester. It is with utmost irritation and grumbli-ness that we will welcome you back to these hallowed halls, in a few days. As per usual bipolar Karachi weather, we'll be having record-breaking chilly days AFTER WINTER BREAK IS OVER. So basically, it'll a Jihad if you manage to abandon your warm "Kambal/Razai/Blankets" at 6:30 in the morning...This is the point where the deeply introspective among us ask themselves: "Do I really need that bachelors degree?"-- Nitty Gritty (Issue No: 798, Jan '15)

"I'm not wearing this wrap, it is more transparent than our national elections!" I griped to Mama's senior producer Jami. "I'd rather wear a shuttle-cock Burka than that crap. Capiche?"

My hands were crossed over my chest as I stared him down...from below. Darned tiny legs.

"Darling, believe me, this is the least skin-baring thing I have unearthed from the pieces I have chosen for you." He entreated, in his annoyingly feminine way. If he didn't look like an over-muscled crew member from the Fast and Furious franchise, I'd say that he was a walking stereotype of the fashion world. Every designer has a bald, sexually ambiguous bachelor staff member on their payroll. Jami is Mama's nod to stereotypes, and he has a better eye-liner routine than I ever will. Go figure.

"Well, then, unearth something else." I stomped away from Closet "A", at Hayat HQ, to bump into Mama. She looked tired, with the dark circles under her huge brown eyes making her skin look wrinkly. She looked her age at this moment. A woman on the wrong side of 45. I had a sudden urge to hug her. To tell her that she was the most beautiful woman I know. To tell her that stupid PFW came every year, and that she shouldn't lose her sleep over lame shit like that.

I didn't of course. Because I can be a witch sometimes. The one that starts with a 'B'.

"I hate everything he pulled for me Mama. I swear, if he throws one more backless Choli at me, I'm pulling an Eminem." I added a foot stomp as a period.

"What? what do you mean, you'll pull an Eminem?", Mama's tired eyes crinkled with confusion.

"You know, when he was so cool that he missed the Academy Awards to watch TV with his kid? And he even won that year! Why can't you be cool like him Mama? Just ditch the stupid Walk, and we'll go home and watch Alpha, Bravo, Charlie..."

"Hmm. Tempting. But you know I'm not as- as-Cool as MnM's." She distractedly unraveled the scarf hanging loosely from my neck, and began knotting it in an intricate bow-tie inspired noose around my collar. I mouthed MnM's to myself.

"You're tweaking me Mama." I sighed, shrugging at her scarf-knotting. She was so attuned to perfecting models and their dresses that she was now doing it without even realizing it. My mother needed a break.

"Laylee. Please. For just one day, wear something I pick out for you." She murmured. Making me feel guilty. "I let you go to that concert. Give me one day, without complaining about everything. I need it. Please."

"Then please tell your minions to make something that I might actually wear in real life. I'm not a model Mama! I don't have the looks and, frankly, the body to pull off these impossible dresses."

"You're beautiful, Layla Hayat! and don't you dare let anyone tell you otherwise." Mama glared steely-eyed at me. "I always make sure my models are comfortable wearing the dresses I design for them. I have never compromised creative margins with discomfort, and vice versa. And you know that!"

"Why can't I wear something I choose? Maria is wearing her own dress!"

"She made it herself, and she made sure that my program design for the day wasn't clashing with her design. If you can whip up something along the lines of Contemporary Urban Royalty, in pastel, then sure I can accommodate that." A brow raised sardonically at me, my mother calmly countered my complaints.

I can't draw a straight line.

I can't draw to save my life.

I have no idea what urban contemporary royalty is. Sounds like something Prince Harry would wear. Also, I'm actually never quite sure what counts as pastel, in the clothes sense.

"When you say Urban, you actually mean, like, ripped jeans right?" I took a wild shot, remembering an old Levi's ad.

Mama sighed audibly.

"Paper crowns?" I added desperately, "Denim. NO! STUDS! final answer studs!"

"You come with me now. Prodigal daughter."

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

"Mama says you can attend as our personal photographer, even though we already have a few of them on board." I yawned as I lazily burrowed into my warm comforter. My headphones dug into my ears, and I ignored the discomfort. Azaan Malik called me up at the weirdest times.

"How long does this shindig go on anyway?" His voice was set against the background noise of occasional hoots, and excited male chatter. And of course, the steady chicka-chick of an old rickety train. He was en-route Karachi from Bahawalpur (a city in lower Punjab Province).

"It's Pakistan Fashion WEEK, dumbass. How long do you think it goes on?" I asked dryly.

"But you don't attend on all seven days, do you?"

"Nope. Just the red-carpet on the opening ceremony and the victory walk at the closing ceremony."

I didn't tell him that Mama wasn't exactly enthused by my insistence on inviting my friends along. She had reluctantly allowed me to invite Azaan, as a photographer for the closing ceremony, but she made it clear that he'd have to work his keep. He was pretty excited about it.

"I'm so bored of photographing stunning green vistas, and awe-inspiring glaciers. I need some pretty ladies in my life right now." He joked, reminiscing about his Northern Pakistan trip with IBSA's Adventure Club. I was so jealous of the experiences he had had in one week, that I've never had in a lifetime.

He had scared me earlier this week, (the first week of our winter break) by sending me a bruised up photo of his hands. Apparently, he had gone snow-sledding in the Himalayas, without protective gloves. He had so much fun that he went again. And again.

Bruised my hand. Not my spirit. Was the caption of the mottled piece of meat he now called his hands.

"What do you like about traveling?" I asked him, to prolong our conversation. I honestly loved our phone-talks. He was so much more un-inhibited this way. It was like a whole different side of this fascinating person. So even when I was droopy with sleep, I liked knowing that he was thinking about something I forced him to think about.

"Hmm. Freedom I guess." He drawled, his voice raspy with fatigue. He was staying awake on purpose because he was on train-watch, (Train-watching is born when a group of idiotic boys sleep through the night on a train ride, and don't get off at their intended train station).

"What do you mean freedom? Your parents can hardly control you now, you party animal!"

"Haha. Cute. Yaar (mate), it's not about the freedom to stay out at night, and dance intoxicated to Bollywood singles..." He pauses then, a bit hesitant. He does this sometimes, carefully weighs words before saying them. I can almost hear him calculate, How much do I say? How much is too much?

"It's this freedom from daily worries you know? When you get away, you get this distant perspective on whatever is plaguing you. Also, there's this really blissful freedom from judgement. Because most people around you don't know you enough, or they don't care enough, to judge you. You're kind of, free. Like a bird. Or maybe a fish. Argh, damn, I'm sleepy."

"What plagues you everyday, Azaan?"

Nothing.

"Oye? you zonked out?"

"Naah, I'm here." He chuckled stiffly, "Just family things. The usual."

"Define usual, please? You should know nothing in my fam is usual, so..."

"My dad is going to retire in a year, and I'm the only son in the house. I always thought I'd be earning by the time he'd retire, so we wouldn't have any financial issues, but that's not the case now, because I took a coupled of years off after my A-Levels (College/12th-13th grade)." His tone is light, but I can sense the underlying heaviness beneath. The worry is eating away at him, and I have a feeling he has never spoken to anyone about it, because the words seemed rusty in his mouth, like they've never been used.

"I didn't know you took a study gap." I stated quietly. That made him 3-4 years older than me.

"Yeah, well, things at my home got a little too much to handle for me, so I took some time off." He said briskly before changing the topic, "But anyways, enough about my ranting, tell me about your end. Getting behind-the-scenes exposure to Pakistan's most glamorous event! How are you coping Hayat?"

"I'm barely scraping through! At this point, if a road-rager bumped me or something, I'd actually thank him!" I groaned, regaling him with horrifying tales of my sartorial disasters at Hayat HQ.

"...and then he brought up this-uhh-incident from when I was 14! imagine that! he is pissed off at something silly I did three years ago!" I ranted about Jami the head producer and his automaton-ish secretary Razi.

"Now I'm curious. What did you do when you were fourteen?" Azaan grinned. It's funny, but I can sense his smile through the airwaves. I'm getting oddly attuned to these nuances. Something which fails to bother me, as it typically would have, had it been any other guy.

"Well, he was forcing me to wear an off-the-shoulder, Hawaiian printed jumpsuit. I mean, WHAT EVEN!?" I plowed on, ignoring the suppressed snort of laughter from his end. "I was pretty crazy in those days, so I accidentally on purpose left it on top of one of our industrial-sized irons. Oh, and I defiantly showed up for the red-carpet in my PJ's. Seriously, I didn't even brush my teeth, or my hair, and I didn't let anyone touch me. Mama was so livid, she let me walk the carpet this way, making up some story about Experimenting with casual chic or some bullshit like that."

Both of us are howling with laughter by now. It really was insane, remembering this disaster. The more I tried to control my giggles, the more I wanted to laugh. After several minutes of calming breathing, and escaped snorts, we finally calmed down. In retrospect, it did seem funny, even though it was pretty awful when it actually happened. Mama didn't speak to me for months after my act of disgrace. Most of her peers' kids, still teased me about it during parties and stuff.

"I c-can't imagine what's funnier. You in H-Hawaiian prints, or you in PJ's." He chortled back.

"Ironically, my old Shirt and slacks were better than that ugly jumpsuit."

"God. I hope so!" He chuckled, and stayed quiet. I waited for one of us to hang up, but neither of us did. It was like an awkward, unspoken blinking contest. Who will break the silence first?

I lost.

"Ahem. So...Did you know that Emirates is introducing a Sheesha lounge for it's Business Class?" I quipped, putting forth this randomness. Anything to avoid awkward silences.

"Whaaattt!? No freaking way! that is so awesome! I'd totally be excited about this random fact, if I smoked, and if I were rich enough to fly Business class in Emirates!"

"Someday huh?"

"Someday. In Sha Allah (God Willing)"

"Yeah, because Allah wants you to smoke Sheesha in a private lounge while flying thousands of miles above ground..."

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

"I can't look." I fiddled with the matte-silver circlet resting on my brows. My eye-lashes felt droopy with the make-up Jami slapped on me. I remembered the humiliation of falling flat on my face three times during dress rehearsals, and I very nearly stashed the flashy red heels I was being forced to wear, down the nearest garbage chute.

"Aren't gymnasts supposed to be good with balance?" Jami had sneered in his snooty metrosexual way, as I blinked against the irritation of eye-contacts, simultaneously trying to ignore the cramp building up my foot-arch and thighs.

I couldn't think of a reply that didn't involve my heels shoved up his backside.

Heel-walking is an art. It is also, most probably a paternalistic, misogynist torture device designed by people who like baking babies or something. Honestly, I have a lot of respect for Models and Beyonce for making it look so bloody effortless! Those things are lady-killers yo!

Anyhoo. Back to the dressing room!

'You look gorgeous Layla! Please, please take a selfie with me!' Maria pouted her carefully painted neon pink lips. My sister was as always, my most staunch supporter.

She looked...eye-popping.

Her flowing silk dress was digitally printed with the impression of historic Mughal landmarks of Pakistan (There's some Royalty there!). The design was hued with a unique, water-color effect, that was super-highlighted with beautifully scripted Urdu-verses from classical Ghazals (ballads) famously sung by the Late artist Madam Noor-jehan (AKA The Queen of Melody). Maria had been super excited about this literal pun on Contemporary Royalty. Mama had been impressed. Which meant a lot to my sister. I could tell, the moment she modeled the dress for us, her eyes had been seeking approval from Mama. It was so rare when one of us managed to do something that pleased her. We savored moments like these.

Maria's dress-sorry-œuvre d'art, was completed as a look with a poofy hair-style, and minimalist jewelry she had made herself by welding together spare copper wires and tiny mechanical objects. Her crown was a band of discrete gold-plated spikes winking from between her hair.

Like I said: Eye-poppin'.

By contrast, I looked almost plain next to her. Though I had to admit, Mama had chosen a pretty incredible ensemble for me.

My ice-blue Under-shift was sleeveless, and I wore a wispy, sheer chiffon Poncho over it. The materiel was this gradient-type beauty (Mama called it Ombré) so the silk underneath literally shifted colors through the X-ray fabric. The blood-red heels made the entire, frothy color contrast beautifully...If only I could stay upright in them for longer than 30 seconds.

My usually tied back hair was loosely draped around my shoulders in soft waves, that fell down to my waist. The golden-brown color seemed darker with some sort of magic powder that the hair-dresser had dusted over it.

Urban Royalty indeed.

This was a far cry from the almost casual, Truck-art themed short Kurti she had pulled for me to wear at the red-carpet, a week earlier. I realized that most designers had gone for different themes on different days. Mama had kicked off with more traditional, desi designs, and a whole lot of Truck Art inspired prints, but by the end of the week, she had moved on towards more modern, urban cuts, and this is what she intended to close the ceremony with. I had actually enjoyed some of the crazy themes, that the edgier, Hipster designers had brought in. One of note, was designer, Deepak Perwani's Ode to Frieda Kahlo Collection. It had sent the entire ramp arena roaring with approval, as models walked down with traditional dresses inspired by Kahlo's art, and proudly sporting fake Unibrows and moles on their faces.

Mama especially applauded this ingenuity, by placing an order for his Show-stopper dress. "Art should support art." are words she lives by.

Perhaps the only awkward moment on the first day of red-carpet was when Tabloids were hounding Mama for comments on the randomest things. She had instructed me to Smile subtly, and keep my opinions to myself for the most part, during this ordeal.

You know there's a reason Movie Stars and Famous people wear sunglasses at night. The cameras are blinding! After a while, your eyes start seeing random bursts of color, surrounded by halos of white light, that disappears for a second before re-appearing with vengeance. It's either early signs of a coma, or about fifty bajillion camera-armed media personnel screaming at your Mama.

"SMILE THIS WAY SANAM! PLEASE! I NEED A CLEAR HEADSHOT!"

Umm, are you trying to shoot her? With Bullets?

"WHAT IS THE SECRET OF YOUR SKIN?! DO YOU HAVE APPOINTMENTS WITH A COSMETIC SURGEON?"

Yes. She regularly goes to Harvey Dent for skin-care advice.

"TELL US ABOUT KHALID HAYAT'S SECOND WIFE!"

Oh she's just peachy. They hang out weekly for fish pedicures. It's almost spiritual. This bond.

"DO YOU THINK HSY AND ELAN ARE STEALING YOUR OLD-SCHOOL STYLES?"

Duh. It's not like fashion ever repeats itself. Ever.

Of course I didn't mouth off most of the irritated sarcastic things boiling up inside me, because I was too busy smiling like a lunatic, as I hung around Mama. Maria was very busy prancing about, reacquainting herself with old industry friends, and fresh designers. I envied her easy confidence. I will forever be the awkward duck in big crowds. It took me so long to develop that level of comfort around people, that it was often not worth the effort.

But then this one really interesting question forced me to respond.

"DO YOU THINK JUNAID JAMSHED SHOULD BE IN THE BUSINESS OF SELLING DESIGNER CLOTHES WHEN HE IS SUCH A SELF-PROFESSED RELIGIOUS PERSON, PREACHING PEOPLE SEXIST THINGS ON LIVE TV!..."

"Hey, there's a difference between his professional decisions and his personal beliefs!" I yelled right back. Mama laughingly tugged at my arm, but I could sense the warning underlying.

Shut up. Now.

I hate it when the media purposely riles people to share their own beliefs, and then label and tear them down. Just because they are famous. It's like they own you. Your thoughts. Your actions. You.

I hate JJ's sexist mentality as much as the next liberal-female, (Personally, I think, all that Pepsi consumption in the 90's broke his brain) but dammit, he has a right to his beliefs.

That precipitated a hasty exit for us.

Hey, I wasn't complaining!

Now, seven days later. Here we are. My sister and I are waiting for the program to wind down, with the final-day walks of designers and assorted musical and dance performances. Razi (a minion of Mama) is guarding the Hotel lobby-turned dressing room allotted for our team. I hear his voice arguing in a high tone with someone outside the door. A second later, he sticks his head inside.

"Miss Layla, do you know this...young man?" His voice dripping with irritation.

"IT'S ME MAJNUN! LAYLA! BE MINE LOVE!" Azaan's muffled shouts made me spur into action.

"Oh my gosh! YES. Yes I know him, Razi! Let him in!" I gasped red-faced as I dashed around, righting my chiffon wrap.

"Layla, my love. Where art thou?" Azaan dramatically delivered this line, as he stepped inside, his eyes half-shut with theatrical pain. Maria was silently gaping at this, no doubt confused by my friend's sudden appearance.

"I'm here, you idiot." I waved at him, "And you're just mixing tragic love stories now. Are you Majnun? Or Romeo?"

He turned then, seeing me for the first time. His comical expression froze. His mouth left gaping open with words that refused to leave. He looks so adorable in his dark blue turtle-neck, it's killing me. The windblown messy hair, and the camera equipment casually strapped to his shoulder is just over-kill at this point.

I'm suddenly, so shy, it's not even funny.

If you listen closely, you can hear those TV-moment crickets chirp in the background.

I didn't anticipate how much his reaction would affect me. I know I'm not an attractive person. At least not in the traditional, Tall, Pale, and Gorgeous sense, but I've always been okay with that. I don't put too much effort in my appearance at College, because I think dressing up too much, just isn't me. It draws unwanted attention to my physical being, and THAT is something I have issues about, because I prefer Not to draw attention to myself. You see I've paid quite a hefty price for unwanted attention. I don't think I'm eager for seconds.

At this moment though, I can't figure out my emotions.

I'm shy. Duh.

But I'm also eager for something. For his approval I guess.

I want to be the one he is complimenting, for a change. I'm kind of tired of watching him ante-up the flirt gear around other girls, while I get a brotherly pat on the head.

Ugh. I can't even begin to describe how wrong this sounds in my head!

I cough pointedly, trying to get him to break out of his stunned silence, "Well, then. Choose one; Romeo, or Majnun!"

His jaw twitches at that, completely ignoring my question. His eyes droop to my heels for a second before swiveling dismissively towards my sister.

He signed a greeting and Salam to her, much to her delight. He further impressed her by signing, 'You look the beauty.' His grin, returning at my sister's silent giggles over his grammatical mistakes.

I felt a little like those Terms and Conditions boxes for websites.

Unwanted, and Ignored.

My heart shriveled up a little bit. I toughened my upper lip in response. My brows raising in indifferent nonchalance.

"We should leave for the stage area now." I grinned too brightly. My voice higher than it usually is.

I love my sister. I truly do. But in that moment, just for the tiniest of moments...I wished she wasn't so beautiful.

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

I peeked from behind the backstage pillars hiding us from view. An Announcer was gushing over Hayat's spread for the year. I could see our famous logo glittering from the huge screens hung around the Ballroom that was hosting this premiere event. Glitterati of Pakistani "Art" society dotted audience, donning ridiculously fancy attires, as they posed "Candidly" for the roaming cameramen.

"That's my cue." Mama muttered as she walked confidently down the 50-foot-aisle. Her every move zoomed in, and magnified in the screens everywhere. Her intricately embroidered traditional dress, drawing gasps of admiration from the fashion nuts in the crowd. She paused to grasp the hands of the showstoppers who were still garbed in her designs. The crowd cheered, as all three of them lifted enjoined hands above. Confetti was flying all over the stage, out of nowhere, and music was drowned out by the crowd's noise.

I could see Azaan, ready with his camera, moving through media-approved red-taped area, to capture Mama's triumphant conquering for the apparel industry. Yet again.

You'd think she had discovered the cure to cancer, what with all the applause she was getting.

"I think after Allah, I'd like to thank my incredible team for the sleepless nights, and over-time they put in, to make this week a possibility...", she began her closing speech, to a standing ovation.

A looming presence suddenly overwhelmed my peripheral vision. A vaguely familiar scent of cigarette and Axe touched my senses, before a masculine hand came to rest around my shoulders.

"...and last, but not least, I want to thank my beautiful children, for bearing with an absentee mother for the past month..."

My heart was lodged in my throat, as I contemplated screaming. The intruder leaned from behind me, to mutter into my ear.

"Do you think this is our cue to walk out?"

I gasped sharply, dropping my beaded clutch with a thunk, on Maria's foot, causing my sister to wince and turn to glare angrily at me. Her expression changed when she saw the intruder behind me, and I croaked out what she couldn't say.

"ZAIF!?"

Author's Note:

THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN RE-PUBLISHED, BECAUSE THE FIRST ONE HAD SOME WP GLITCHES!

Hello/Hola/Salam!

Hope you're doing awesome! This is a prettttyyy looonng chapter to make up for my long absence. I still have a lot of University stuff going on at present, so hang on, and have some faith y'all

*For those who don't know, Junaid Jamshed, is a Pakistani Singer-turned-Moulvi, slash Boutique owner, slash Occasional moral dictator on women issues. (LOL). He is often seen defending his foot-in-mouth sexist comments on national TV, by apologizing on facebook, or something like that.