"Everyone knows there are only two evils at IBSA; tasteless cafeteria Biryani, and online course enrollment. For those innocent freshmen who're thinking about waking up late on enrollment day; I suggest you rethink your war strategy.The moment those green dots on your ERP systems go live at 8 AM sharp...it is every man/woman/elf/unicorn for himself. Imagine a student version of The Hunger Games, where the one with the best internet and mouse-clicking skills will ultimately score the sexiest timetable for the next six months. May the odds be ever in your favor!..." -Nitty Gritty (Issue # 765, Jan '15)

Layla:

"ZAIF!" I squeaked out loud, launching myself into his arms. He grunted with surprise as my heels dug into his shins. "YOU CAME!"

He laughed at my enthusiasm, before setting me down and reaching for Maria. I couldn't stop my face-splitting grin. I didn't even realize how much I missed seeing his face. 

A face I could barely recognize now, as he stepped into a pool of reflected stage-lights. 

Maria gasped too, and started telling Zaif exactly what she thought of his hair. It was rather overlong, and almost reached his collar now. I joined her protests, yanking on his silky brown locks. The dark scruff on his face was new too. He seemed to be grooming a beard. 

"Can't you two just say that you missed me, like normal people?" He grumbled, running his hands through his hair to fix my ruffling. "And when exactly do we join Mama up there?" 

I only had to look across the backstage room, to find Jami glaring at me. He held up two fingers, before gesturing at the stage. His curious gaze resting on my brother, turned perplexed, and then downright horrified as he recognized who Zaif was. 

"Oh God. He's legit going to blow a fuse if you walk the ramp tonight." I informed my brother gleefully. "Let's do it!"

"Because my hair is long?" Zaif grinned back at Jami, throwing in a cheeky wave. 

"Because you don't look like Urban contemporary royalty. In fact, your current style falls under Jobless Hobo." I eyed his Khaki jeans and Blue USC Football hoodie combo with morbid fascination. I think even Mama mightn't forgive him for his wardrobe choice. After she cries over seeing him after months, she might just cut him off from her will or something. 

"When did you land?" I probe him while Maria begins fussing over his appearance. She yanked off the hoodie, straightening his wrinkled checked shirt, and unbuttoning the sleeves. Once she had folded the cuffs back neatly, and undone the top two button, Zaif actually looked almost presentable. She hummed with annoyance over his Chuck-Taylors. 

"Err, about an hour ago. The morons at PIA (Pakistan International Airlines) misplaced my hand carrier..."

That stumped me. Mama hasn't let him fly on commercial flights ever since he started college, four years ago. Dad usually charters a plane for Zaif's brief visits, and sends in extra security during his stay. I can just imagine how much my mother will freak out when she finds out that her 'Heir apparent' calmly flew commercial, and grabbed a cab to the hotel. 

"That's our cue!" Maria straightened up as she put on a dazzling smile, before stepping confidently onto the platform. A wave of appreciative applause and hooting erupted around the hall. No wonder Mama was so proud of her. Her design was better than some of the pieces seasoned designers had sent down the runway this week. There was a refreshing quirkiness in her dresses that never let go of aesthetics. Somehow, whatever she wore just ended up looking phenomenal. 

I tamped down the anxiety that attacked me at the prospect of walking out in front of hundreds of elitist, fashion snobs. Not to mention the intimidating sea of cameras. I absolutely refused to dwell on Azaan Malik's presence. His behavior today had puzzled and hurt me.

"If I didn't say it before, I'll do it now." Zaif whispers to me, drawing my hand through his arm for support. "You look beautiful. Just smile and wave boys. Smile and wave."

I giggle hysterically as I remembered our childhood joke. When we saw Madagascar for the first time, it was hilarious when we realized that we felt rather like the Zoo penguins during the Victory Walk. Zaif used his best "Skipper" voice each year whenever I felt nervous. 

I had missed this for the past few years, because of his absence. 

I lifted my chin, and tightened my hold on his forearm. Stepping into the bright lights, and camera flashes  blinded me for a moment, and I clung onto my brother for more that moral support. If possible, the crowd grew even louder when they saw Zaif with me. I dimly heard the announcer saying something about surprise entrances. Mama's back was to us, and I saw her stiffen before she slowly turned around. Shocked joy colored her face, before she re-arranged her expressions.

The smile stretching my lips faltered when I saw Azaan leaning forward to adjust his camera-lens. His mouth grim with concentration as he snapped away. I tore my eyes away from him, and forced myself to look elsewhere. I grinned back at some of Mama's "Friends". They were the ones making the most noise, because they'd seen me do this ever since I was a baby. There was Frieha Altaf (or Potty-mouth as Mama affectionately called her), Hassan Sheheryar (and his harem of supermodels), Maheen Khan (The Godmother of PFW) etc. 

I grinned when I spotted Ruby settled in the third row to my left. She was blowing kisses at me, and wildly gesturing at me to do a spin. I laughed out loud when we were hit in the face with some stray falling confetti. Zaif took that moment to honor Ruby's request. He lifted my arms, forcing me into a twirl that sent my dress flaring out. I squawked with surprise, as I saved myself from a graceless stumble. Heels and twirling don't really mix. 

Mama and Maria reached us then, for a few family photo-ops. Mama hugged Zaif for a long moment, before she murmured something in his ear. I saw his face harden at her words. 

Before I could make sense of this puzzling exchange, Mama turned swiftly towards Jami standing at the backstage entrance, and nodded once at him. 

As other designers and models joined us onstage for a selfie, I heard Mama whisper something even more puzzling to my brother. 

"You shouldn't have come tonight."

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

Azaan:

"Can I lick your tattoo?" 

An extremely drunk lady yelled at me over the pulsing music. I raised my eye-brows at her request. She was at least twice my age, if not more. Her sweaty fingers traced the skin beneath my collar-bone, forcing me to take an involuntary step back. 

"Umm, it's a birthmark. Auntie." I deliberately emphasized on the word. removing her wandering fingers from my person. 

Drinking isn't uncommon among this class of Pakistanis. They think they're above the Pakistani Law which forbids the sale and consumption of alcohol by Muslims. Most of these people hire Non-Muslim staff, in order to avoid the hassle of fake-IDs. 

"I don't care." She started leaning forward, scaring the shit out of me. I hurriedly ducked away from her, searching for a way out of the ballroom, clutching my camera and my virtue close. If one more sexually frustrated cougar accosts me today, I will seriously lose my mind. 

Before coming here, I actually thought I'd enjoy being a single guy tonight. Flirt with celebrities. Hang out with some really cool photographers...Meet my friend. 

So far, I'm regretting not having a guardian wife/girlfriend by my side. Someone who'd protect me from these vultures.

I mentally cursed myself for this cowardice. If Faris or Asadomer found out about this, I'd never survive the teasing. 

The Walk had ended half-an-hour ago, after which most people had advanced to the ballroom for the After-party. I was really happy with some of the photos I had taken today. But since this was my first time covering a Fashion-Walk; I had little idea about the schedules.The last I saw of Layla was onstage, before Sanam Hayat whisked her kids away. I wanted to confirm with her if I could leave early.

As if conjured by my own worry, I caught sight of Layla with her Mother and Brother. Maria was a little way off, conversing animatedly with a guy. The trio seemed to be arguing in a secluded part of the hotel lobby. I hung back hesitantly, debating internally about signalling her or something. As if she could sense my stare, her head lifted and she saw me. Her mouth stiffened and she flipped her hair back, going back to the argument. 

I'm confused. 

I thought we'd grown closer since the concert. We'd talked on the phone almost everyday since winter-break started. We'd laughed over random things, and thought about a lot of serious ones. But when I meet her in person, she's acting like I'm a stranger she hired as a photographer. 

Seeing her dressed up today stunned me. She looked so different. 

The one thing I like about Layla is the fact that she is very natural. She isn't the kind of girl who'd dress up to impress anyone. Most of the female population at University do just that. They're not very subtle with make-up and hair-styles, and I usually give them the praise and attention they want. It's the only way I actually know how to interact with the opposite sex. 

Why?

Because it's easy. This way, nobody takes you seriously. When girls know that you behave a certain way with everyone, they get the message: 'You're not special, and I'm not really interested', in the kindest way possible of course. It also helps me maintain my reputation as a ladies' man without dealing with the actual pain of a relationship. Neat huh?

And then there's someone like Layla. 

I tried being the same way with her, but she sees through me. Ever. Single. Time. I flirt with her when I want to make her laugh. Because that's the only response she deems acceptable for my outrageous behavior. When I say that she could give Priyanka Chopra a run for her money...I usually get a sarcastic come-back and a whack over my head, because we know that I'm being ironic.  

Then we arrive at this frustrating evening. 

She looks absolutely breathtaking. 

I never knew her hair was so long, or of such a unique color. It was lighter than her sisters'. With her caramel-hued skin, the effect was very distinctive. Her dress probably cost more than my new camera equipment. And the scarlet heels....I really needed to stop thinking about those heels. 

Who'd have thought my Layla would clean up that well?

Not yours truly. That's for sure. 

Every brotherly feeling I've built our friendship around threatens to evacuate my brain. My automatic douchebag mode begs me to treat her like I would treat any other girl. 

But I can't.  Not with Layla. 

After hearing about her past, I've come to the conclusion that she desperately needs positive male figures in her life. The last thing she needs is a guy who makes her self-conscious about her body. She needs people who make her feel safe, in a way that lets her be independent at the same time.  

I decide to barge in on the conversation.

"...and did you pause to think what sort of a nightmare this would create for our security?" Sanam hissed to the tall wiry dude who badly needed a  hair-cut. "I really hope she didn't see you. I heard that she's attending with her sisters..."

"Who are you talking about?" Layla frowns at her mother.

"Nobody of your concern." Her mother snapped before glaring back at her son. She seemed to be communicating without words here. 

"How am I supposed to know that The First Lady would make an appearance at PFW? I just wanted to  surprise my own family. Is that a crime too?" The dude muttered coldly.

"Wait....are you talking about Mrs. Shah?" Layla's face paled, and I realized she's talking about the Prime Minister's wife. 

I almost want to hunt her down, and personally inform her that she gave birth to a piece of shit. 

"This isn't your concern Layla." Sanam's dismissive response makes me feel embarrassed for Layla. 

"I would like to know how this is Zaif's concern then?" Chin lifted in defiance, I could see the resemblance between mother and daughter then. They were both pretty headstrong. 

The silence that followed this question was heavy with implications. I saw Zaif worriedly pull at his hair. Sanam's jaw was set. Refusing to explain her curious words. 

I coughed awkwardly then, trying to get their attention. 

"Yes?" Sanam stared blankly at me. 

"Err. Hey Mrs. Hayat. I'm Layla's friend-"

"Yes.Yes, of course you are. Azaan? right?" She cut in, "Can we help you?"

"I was just wondering how long I have to stay. It's getting kind of late, and I have to drive back to Cantt...."

"What sort of a car do you drive Mr. Malik?" 

Weird. I tried to hide my shock at this question.

"An Alto. Suzuki." I shrugged. It was small, and quite old. Mom had pitched in with her savings to help me get it. It never broke down, and it gave me decent gas mileage. What more could I ask for?

"Hmm. Would it be terribly forward of me if I ask you for a favor?"

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

Layla:

"I can't believe we have to inconvenience him this way, when we have two chauffeured Land Cruisers in the parking lot." I mumbled to Zaif as we climbed into Azaan's car. The parking area of the hotel was freezing at this time of the night, and I drew up my hoodie to cover my ears. My feet had long since numbed up with cold.  Zaif-The Polar Bear of the Hayat family hadn't even bothered zipping up his parka. Azaan on the other hand was rocking a light grey beanie with his dark jacket. What with his studded ear, he actually looked like he was breaking into someone else's car.

Mama thought the best way to smuggle out Zaif would be in a car that nobody would believe we'd ever own. 

Azaan cheerfully agreed to drop my brother home, for which I felt awkward and indebted. 

Why can't he just be an asshole tonight, so I can hate him properly for snubbing me?

"Do you want to stay for the after-party?" Mama asked me, knowing full well what my answer would be.

"Oh, hell no." 

I'd rather suffer a two-hour extra class with Dr. Bilal Munshi than attend the after-party. Even Mama isn't very eager for us to stay too long at these functions. Her colleagues are usually intoxicated at this point of the event, and she's terrified we might mistakenly drink something we're not supposed to. 

One thing I really admire about my Mama; she has her principles. And she sticks to them, no matter how many times "Aunties" come up to her and tell her to "Live a little!". 

We're probably the only kids in our social class who're not into substance abuse. 

Well, Zaif has his cigarettes...but that's practically tame when we compare it to some of the other evils. Or maybe that's what Zaif has convinced us to think. 

"I could be getting someone pregnant out of wedlock..."

"I could be arrested for drug abuse you know?..."

"I could be in a gang..."

We practically beg him to smoke when he threatens us with these possible scenarios. Once a jackass. Always a jackass.

"So. How do you know my baby sister?" Zaif asks once he's sitting shotgun. I huff irritably from the backseat. 

"We're friends at University. Mutual group and all."

"I must say I'm surprised she made any friends at all. She isn't very outgoing."

"She's sitting right behind you. Ass." I flicked his ears in retaliation. Why can't my family be NORMAL around my friends? Is it too much to ask?

"She's selective about her friends." Azaan comes to my defense, "Which is a smart thing I'd say. She doesn't waste her time with a bunch of people she doesn't care about. She'd rather just be around a select few she actually feels comfortable with. Nothing wrong with that, in my book."

"Again. She's right here. And she's getting super annoyed about being referenced in third-person..." I sniped back, trying to hide the thrill I felt at his praise.

The rest of the ride went smoothly, with us discussing Zaif's college experiences, and his Performing Arts major. 

"Thanks for the ride, dude." Zaif bumped his fist with Azaan when we finally reached home. I whispered a quick Bye before snatching the carrier-bag with my clothes, and stepping out into our pebbled drive-way. 

"Hey, I think this is yours." Azaan leans over the console to hand me a stray plastic bag. I frown with confusion, before taking the bag. It felt like it had clothes.

"Thanks. I'll see you at School then?" I muttered rhetorically before slamming the car-door shut. 

Zaif gave me a sleepy kiss on the head before literally collapsing on the living-room couch. He was definitely feeling the effects of an 18-hour PIA flight.

It wasn't until I reached my bedroom  that I actually looked into the plastic bag. I was so confused by the contents, I almost called Azaan back. 

A cashmere shawl. An authentic Kashmiri-Embroidered beauty. I traced the vibrant peacocks outlining the design. Gorgeous.

I fished out a scribbled note that accompanied the shawl. 

"I may or may not have sobbed into this shawl when I heard about Bennifer's divorce. Otherwise, it is very much sweat-free. I bought it in a tiny village near Hunza. I'll show you the pictures when we meet again. Absolutely breathtaking place, Hayat! I have no idea why we're so desperate to rush off to places like Switzerland for holidays...We have better views right here! Anyways, I'd be happy, if you accept this as a token of my gratitude for your friendship. 

I'm wealthy in my friends."

-A.M. 

I couldn't stop grinning at this. 

He actually quoted Shakespeare! The dork!

But most importantly, he did care! I have no idea why he acted weird tonight. I think he just redeemed himself. 

A/N:

Bennifer=Ship-name for Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner. Seriously shocked me with the breakup. #Truth

What do you guys make of Zaif as a character? 

Do lemme know what you thought about this chapter. I'd love some honest feedback. :) 

Don't forget to Comment and Vote!

-E.