"You realize your Resume is screwed up when you don't know what to put under the About Me section. (Is it just me, or does anyone else experience a mini existential crisis every time a prospective employer asks you to describe yourself? It would be so much easier if I were Ironman-'Genius billionaire playboy philanthropist.' ) And all of you fakers putting 20-hours of community service in the extra-curricular section, lemme just say this: Accidentally throwing an empty juice packet in a trash-bin once upon a time, doesn't constitute as community service..." -(Nitty Gritty, Issue No 801, December '14)

They say misfortune never comes alone. 

This past week cannot be better proof of this statement. 

It started when I woke up to these three awful words.

Zaif shot Musa. 

And then it just kept getting worse. 

"You're lying." I muttered to my mother, before leaving her alone in the foyer. I started searching for my brother. Manically. Anything at all to confirm his presence. When I shoved the door to his room open, my heart seized with joy for the briefest of moments. His dark-green hand-carry was lying abandoned near the bed. Unzipped. As if he'd just grabbed something from it and left it there in a hurry. 

I was shivering with cold, and fear when I tugged it open. 

A Metallica T-shirt, spare toothbrushes, shaving cream, and two bags of chocolates. 

I choked back a sob when I saw the names scrawled on each bag. "For Laylee" and "For Super Mario". 

"He's gone." Mama says from the doorway. Her eyes oddly bright with emotion. "Gone back to the States for now. He could get in serious trouble over here , if he stayed..."

"How could he shoot someone last night Mama? He was with me the whole time! We stayed up late and watched three movies. If he was thinking about killing people yesterday, don't you think I'd know about it?" My voice got higher with every hysterical sentence, as I tried to stop the tears. Mama's face is an expressionless mask of ice. She really doesn't handle these wayward emotions all that well...

"He didn't do it last night, honey. He did it years ago." Mama sighs, as she explains haltingly. Each word seems wrenched from her very heart. "In his defense, he was just being a good brother...and technically, he didn't pull the trigger. One of our ex-security guards did..."

"This doesn't make any sense. Musa is obviously not dead! we would have heard about it over the news..."

"That's because the bullet hit his right side. It damaged some nerves when it passed through his flesh, and he lost the use of his right arm...."

"I don't believe you." I kept saying throughout her explanation. My brother can't commit such an act of violence. No matter the reason. I just refuse to accept it. "I want to talk to him. I don't believe you."

Mama's account of this surreal incident refused to seep into my image of my brother. But more than that, I couldn't believe that they had kept something like this under wraps for three years! According to my mother, Zaif came to hear something Musa said about me (drunkenly), to a bunch of their mutual friends. When he confronted Musa outside his Golf Club, the resulting scuffle turned violent. In this confusion, one of our old security guards actually complied with Zaif's heated orders and shot Musa. It must have been our lucky day, because the bullet didn't kill him. A perverse part of me secretly wishes that it had. 

"Your father payed through his nose to hush up the matter. The security guard in question was smuggled out of the country. He also-unwillingly-poured money into Khadim Shah's campaign fund for his second reelection. The Shah family only agreed to drop the criminal case because we assured them that, in retaliation, we would bring up charges of our own..." Mama eyed me hesitatingly at this point.

My pulse raced as I contemplated the implications. 

She meant that we would have disclosed what happened to me. Everything that Musa did to me would be on public record, available for prying Media Personnel, and available for public consumption. As if it isn't enough that my family and I have to live with the knowledge of my ignominy...

I was the pawn of this horror-show. I looked away from my mother, refusing to accept this nightmare.

"Khadim has future political plans for his worthless son, so he can't afford to have us talking about-well-the past..."

Except it isn't completely in the past; is it? 

It will never stop haunting me.

 "If they never pressed charges; then why does Zaif have to run and hide?" I asked quietly, my eyes leveled on the ceiling of Zaif's room.

"Well. He was a minor when it happened. But he isn't one now." Mama sighs as she sits beside me on the bed. Her fingers stroking my head shakily. "While the Shahs aren't pressing charges, if this story leaks into the press, a new case of strict liability can have him convicted in an adult court. It will be a public case. And I will do everything to protect him from that. He is about to graduate, and these charges will ruin his life in The States,"

Unbelievable. She is defending him like he playfully slugged Musa instead of shooting him. I'm so conflicted about it. I'm sure whatever Musa said about me, deserved this bullet, and more...but then again, if we condone a criminal act, how would that make me any better than him? how would that make my brother and my family any better than him?

"...It was unwise of your brother to appear at such a public place. It stirs up old gossip. Even though we kept it quiet, there are too many people involved to completely erase the story. Just yesterday, your father received a blackmail call from an underground journalist. He knows about the security guard we're financially supporting in Dubai. He did a speculative piece on a small-time news channel, when your father refused to succumb to blackmail, that's why we panicked, and sent Zaif back immediately. We are worried, because if he takes the story to mainstream media, the Shahs will do nothing to help us suppress it. They have little to lose at this point. Even if we bring out your past, it will just end up harming us...."

I get it. It's because I'm the victim in this scenario. Nobody wants their daughter's name splashed across a sexual harassment case. In our society, a woman's virtue is something we spill blood over. It's guarded like crown jewels. If word gets out about me, how will I ever live with my head held high? how will I ever be taken seriously, as someone who is more than a casualty?

"This information should never reach the news. So you have to be very careful about what you say about Zaif to anyone else. The media is ruthless in this regard, they lust after stories that can make powerful people look bad....However, you don't need to worry about it..."

Too late for that.

"...this doesn't concern you..."

Oh, but it does.

My brother committed a criminal offense because of me. 

My brother can never live safely in Pakistan because of me. 

I literally ruined his life, without even knowing about it. 

And all this before breakfast....

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

"LAYLAAA!!!" A high pitched scream came from the general vicinity of the University foyer, before I was nearly tackled to the ground by a blur of orange. 

"I MISSED YOU SO MUCH! ACK!!" Pareeshae yelled enthusiastically in my ear, with an utter disregard for cochlear sensitivity. I was also having difficulty breathing because my face was mushed against her bright orange sweater vest. 

"Miffed boo foo." I mumbled with a mouthful of wool. 

When she finally released me, I got an eyeful of sparkling eyes, glowing skin, and a sunny smile. Islamabad treats her well, apparently. She looked happier and healthier. I know she'd never complain about it, but living in the hostel doesn't really appeal to her. She comes from a secure, happy family with two doting parents and a protective older sister. If it weren't for her desire to get a degree from IBSA, I bet she'd never dream of leaving her home-town. She loves her Islamabad. 

"Guess how many classes we have together!?" She sang happily to me, dragging me towards the classrooms. We paused when she stopped to greet a bunch of our classmates. Everyone seems downright excited about starting a new semester. 

I just want to start a new life. 

One where I can start fresh, you know?

Just like a semester. Where after four to five odd months, everything you did in the past becomes kinda irrelevant. Every new semester is a clean slate. Filled with lots of potential, new subjects, new teachers...and no mistakes. You can't look at a brand new semester and think, "I wish I could do it over." It's right there in front of you, waiting to be lived. 

"I don't know Shay. How many classes do we have together?" I pasted a fake smile on my face for her sake. 

"Four! Imagine that! I'm so volunteering to be a class representative for Calculus. I heard the teacher gives extra credit to her CRs..." 

I faked through most of the classes on my first day back. I pretended to listen. I pretended to pay attention. I pretended I was excited to meet up with the gang after classes. I resisted the urge to sink back into my old shell. The one where I kept my head down, and avoided humans. It'd be so much easier for me. Dealing with people makes me realize just how screwed up my own life is. Typically, the most pressing worries my peers have are about course enrollment, and maybe for some, it's their relationships. 

And then there's me. Someone whose brother can be conv--

"Earth to Hayat! We've been waving at you for five minutes." Azaan's dimpled grin distracts me from my dark thoughts. His grin slips for a bit when he eyes the shawl clutched tightly around my torso. I pinked distractedly, moving stray hair out of my eyes. On my way to campus, I accidentally broke my jaw clip in the car, almost scaring Khan the Driver when I started crying over it. Seriously. A broken hair-clip broke me today. 

"Nice shawl." He drawled lazily, his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. "Whoever bought it, must have impeccable taste..." 

"I know right! I complimented her twice, but she ignored me." Shay pipes in before moving ahead of me to hug Syra. Daniyal and Omer high-fived her, while Faris ignored all of us, choosing to watch a football match being screened from the Student Center TV. Asad was conspicuously absent from the group meeting in the Student Lounge.

"Thanks for the shawl. I love it." I mumbled awkwardly, drawing it closer to my face. 

"Hey, I owed you one..." He ruffled my hair playfully, before tugging me towards the group. I started feeling almost normal while we caught up with everyone's winter break experiences and semester courses. But every few minutes, I'd be reminded of the fact that nothing was normal anymore. If anyone finds out about my brother's past, if it somehow makes it into mainstream media, what will I do? Will my friends prefer to be around me? Will they look at me with disgust? As just another spoiled-little-rich-girl whose family got away with serious crimes?

"So, Azzy here told me that you looked...what did he call it...Magical!" Pareeshae's whispered teasing comment about the Fashion Walk stunned me. My head whipped towards Azaan who was busy showing his Winter Trip photographs to the guys. 

I can't explain why hearing this just made my heart beat faster. He thinks I looked magical...

He laughed over something Omer said, and I involuntarily smiled at his dimples. 

"Hmm...If I didn't know better, I'd say that you have a little crush." Pareeshae's eyes sparkled with mischief, and I immediately killed my smile, choosing to glare at her in response. 

"It's OK. I can keep it secret. I have soooo many secrets inside my stomach. It's like a secret safe down here. Seriously, I hear 'em, and I swallow 'em, like a juice or something. But not orange juice because it makes my teeth itch a little bit..." Pareeshae's yakking is unbelievably handy. She can literally talk herself into distraction. I simply nod, and insert appropriate "Oh My Gods" and "No freaking ways" to keep the conversation going. 

If only she knew the kind of secrets I am keeping inside me...

"...so then I said, 'Of course you can be in our project group, Dinesh!' and that pissed her off, and she blocked me from her Snapchat, as if I want to see her stupid food pictures and- OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT!?"

My attention was diverted by the arrival of Asad. 

A very strange-looking Asad. 

His head was half-shaved in those crazy-hipster-ish styles, and he was sporting a rather shaggy mop of beard. I have no idea what statement he was trying to make with the camel-colored man-purse. It was just confusing me. 

"So, what do you think of the hipster look, ladies?" Asad shrugged at us. Azaan and the rest of the guys were howling with laughter at this point. I think our open-mouthed stares weren't helping the guy's self-esteem either. "Seriously, what is the first word that comes to mind, about my new style? Give it to me raw..."

"Douche." Daniyal snickered.

"Idiot." Omer suggested. 

"It's like someone stuck your head into a pencil sharpener, and changed their mind after half a twist." Azaan quipped.

"I LOVE your purse!" Shay marveled at the camel-colored bag, hanging from Asad's shoulder. 

"It is a SATCHEL, thank you. You people just don't know quality when you see it. I also have these cool John Lennon glasses..." 

I was actually laughing by the time everyone finished ribbing at poor Asad. This is what makes life worthwhile. These little moments of mirth. 

"Okay...okay...if you don't believe us. Ask Faris. He'll give you straight feedback." Daniyal chortled as he pointed towards Faris sprawled on a couch some distance away. We watched with morbid fascination as Asad cockily approached Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Brooding. 

Faris' eyebrows disappeared near his hairline at Asad's question.

"You look like a douche, dude." Faris grunted. 

"What about now?" Asad quickly jammed his round-framed glasses on his face. 

"Now you look like a douche with Harry Potter glasses." Faris scowled at our crestfallen hipster friend, "And your purse is blocking my game. Move it."

"IT'S A SATCHEL, DAMMIT!" Asad rolled his eyes at us, "This group is like a famine of style..."

"Hey, hey...shut up! all of you!" Azaan suddenly yelled. His eyes fixed on his cellphone. The blood drained from his face as he looked up at us. My breath hitched. 

"Change the channel Faris." Azaan murmured shakily, gesturing towards the flat-screen. "I don't believe this..."

I felt my breakfast come up my throat. It had to be news about my brother. Somehow it made its way to some big channel. I wonder if I'd be thrown out of University when the Media starts hounding me, I wonder if-

"Dude, this is fucking El-Clasico, why should I change the chann-" Faris' complaints were cut short by a very angry Azaan.

"Faris, I swear to God, I will kill you with my bare hands if you don't change the damned channel right now." 

I twisted my cashmere tightly, knuckles turning almost white with my nerves. I ignored Pareeshae's curious looks. I was breathing too hard. Any second now. Any second, they're going to know that my brother is a criminal....

When the student lounge TV finally shifts to a breaking news transmission of Geo News, I'm in for another shock. 

"...as reported by the Peshawar police. However, our on-ground sources confirm that only 4 out of 6 terrorists have been killed. This is exclusive Geo footage from APS Peshawar, where you can see that bodies of victims are still being carted out. The Army has declared a state of emergency on local hospitals..."

Other students and teachers milling about the lounge, are now staring dumbstruck at the images of a bloodbath being reported. I hear someone crying behind me. Azaan's face is deathly pale as he shakes his head. 

"...we have a tentative list of 74 casualties at this point. More than 50 of whom are APS school children. This is without doubt the blackest day in the history of Pakistan..."

"I don't believe this." Azaan's hoarse whisper is like a bullet-shot in the lounge's tomb-like silence. "This is my old school. I studied there...these are my teachers...my..."

I force my frozen legs to move. To pat Azaan's heaving shoulders. It is difficult, to stop the tears that just won't halt. I cry for my pain. My Mother's pain. Azaan's pain. And now I cry for strangers. Children I never met. Teachers who died protecting their students. I cry for the little girl whose first day of school turned into her last day of school. 

Black day indeed. I couldn't agree more. 

Author's Note:

I can't believe it'll soon be a whole year since the APS-(Army Public School) Peshawar massacre. It still hurts doesn't it? Imagining the horror those 144 people (most of them school children) had to face before they left this world. But more than that, the horror haunting those who survived it...

Nadeem Aslam says, "Pakistan produced people of extraordinary bravery. But no nation should require its citizens to be that brave." 

Never forget 16th December. Please do remember them in your prayers.

I hope that the survivors find peace, and the bereaved find solace. (Ameen)