"All you self-professed Math huggers out there, be warned. There's a reason why our College Algebra course is Ungraded. Welcome to a world of Tears and C-minuses! The teacher will start off by introducing Math as a "Language" With it's own "Grammar" and "Rules". Unfortunately for us, that language might as well be a variation of Inuktitut, spoken somewhere around the North-pole by Bear-eating Eskimos..."--(Nitty Gritty, Issue No 832, February'15)

"Just one more to go Hayat! You can do this!" Azaan's yells were coming to me from a distant place. I clutched at my stomach in agony. My nemesis was likewise drained...or perhaps the right word would be, stuffed. He stared at me, bloodshot eyes, face wet with tears. I could see the pleading in his eyes, Give up already.

"It hurts." I moaned. My entire life flashed before my eyes in that moment. Today is very likely, my last day on earth. "Tell my sister I love her...and that our cat is secretly a serial killer..."

"I know it hurts babe, but you can do this. You're almost there! Don't chicken out now, this is about our honor. Besides, my ice-cream sundae is riding on this." Shay hissed in my ear. My personal cheerleader.

Azaan is back. Leaning in from the other side to growl, "You own that stomach. That stomach doesn't own you! Show it who's boss...." This followed by a clap on my back. I whimpered. The urge to throw up was too strong...

My nemesis takes that opportunity to swipe up two more mouthfuls. He grins widely now, "Give up, Baji! (Big sister) I win!"

I eye the last remaining Golgappa on my plate. My intestines are threatening to go on strike. My nose is red and runny with the spices...If this were a Tom & Jerry episode, I'd be waving that white little flag right about now. As it is, I'm extremely competitive, and I'll be damned if let myself be bested by delicious street food.

I take in a shallow breath. Shallow. Because it so happens that eating 47 Golgappas (AKA Pani Puri) in one sitting, can seriously reduce the expansion space created in our bodies for our lungs. I gingerly pick up the last fried crisp filled with chickpeas and chutney. Next step is to dip it in the sour and spicy Imli ka pani (Tamarind sauce). The crisp is so flaky that it starts to disintegrate as soon as I fill it with sauce, so I quickly lean forward and gulped it down. The sauce dribbles down my chin, and hands. It is a well known culinary law, that there's absolutely no attractive way to eat golgappas.

My friends cheered once I had completed the bet. I was too busy keeping my four dozen Golgappas down, to notice the hollering, and congratulations erupting around me.

I grinned weakly at 12-year-old Gohar, my new friend and nemesis. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he made an "L" sign over his forehead.

For once, I didn't mind losing to Gohar. He's already lost so much...

It's been a few months since APS. Recently, Azaan came to hear about this state-funded initiative of rehabilitation for the APS survivors. Since the surviving kids were so mentally disturbed, a change of scenery was recommended by the counselors and psychologists dealing with the case. A few of the kids were eager to visit Karachi with their parents. I suppose, with its beaches, and amusement parks, Karachi had a different more metropolitan environment than Peshawar to offer to the kids. When we contacted the initiative organizers regarding volunteers, they were ecstatic about our enthusiasm to help. So a bunch of us University students were voluntarily hosting the APS survivor families, and showing them around town.

Mama had reluctantly allowed me to tag along. Today's our third day on the Karachi tour bus, and already I feel like a total noob, because I haven't done most of the things my friends are chattering about. It seems almost criminal that I don't know my city all that well. When Azaan came to know that I have never traveled in a Rickshaw or eaten bun kebabs from questionable street vendors, he took it upon himself, to turn this trip into a self-discovery adventure for me. So far I've made friends with Gohar (one of our guests from Peshawar), traveled in a Rickshaw and made myself sick by indulging in a golgappa competition. I'm proud of myself for these accomplishments, and if my intestines don't melt after all this spicy sauce, my next goal is a famous road-side bun kebab that Azaan and Asadomer practically worship.

I've found that healing is a slow inexorable process. Just like our flesh-wounds, our emotional traumas eventually heal up too. After a while, it doesn't feel like we're carrying the grief with us, everywhere. Without even realizing it, we've shed most of it. I think this is the most important part of healing. The very human ability to forget things. Imagine if we couldn't forget; how painful would it be! We'd never be able to experience joy, wonder, apathy...only if we couldn't forget.

"If you feel like throwing up any time soon, those hedges are looking awesome. Handy, and private." Asad points hopefully at a bush near the road-side cafe we're sitting at. I glare at him through half-closed eyes. I know he has a bet with Syra that I'll be the first to throw up. I have no intention of throwing up. I haven't vomited since 2004 (expired milk reaction) and I don't plan on breaking my clean streak unless I'm dying...or pregnant. The former is more likely than the latter in my case. I don't even have enough energy to swat Azaan away when he swivels his ever-present camera in my direction.

Burns road (named after an old-timey physician, Dr James Burnes, because: British Colonialism), is like the Holy Grail of desi food in Karachi. The bustling restaurants of various sizes, touting local delicacies, the narrow food-street, where you can't really tell where a shop begins and ends. I've always seen these places from the comfort of my air-conditioned car. I've eaten the food we order from the local food-chains, but I've never quite had the four-dimensional experience of indulging in street food like this.

"You simply cannot eat Pani Puri at home. It's downright unnatural." Azaan had muttered before scribbling "Thelay Walay Golgappay" (Golgappay from Road-side kiosk) on our itinerary for the day.

As a group we must have cleaned out the Thela (Street vendor) by the time we finally left. My stomach hated me, but I was buzzed in a very good way.

At first, the APS kids in our host group were shy, and almost hesitant to take part in the fun activities we had planned for them. And it took a while to get through to them, as friends.

Things got a little tensed when we were at a popular kids arcade "The Arena". We signed them up for a game of paintball, but when they were all suited up, a couple of the kids freaked out when they brought out the paintball guns. In hindsight it seems that the trauma of surviving a mass shooting is probably worse than dying during it. Each of these kids ranging from ages 9-15 have seen people getting murdered in front of them, so It isn't surprising that they're emotionally closed-off, and exhibiting symptoms of PTSD.

Gohar is the sole survivor of his seventh grade class. He says that, on the day of the attack, two armed men barged into their classroom, interrupting the middle of a Geography lesson. The kids actually thought this was one of those security drills that Army personnel often conduct in the school. However, when they randomly grabbed a kid and shot him as a preview of the horrors they were about to unleash, that's when the class started screaming...Gohar saw his two best friends breath their last in front of his eyes. He survived because one of his classmates fell dead on top of him, and he hid there beneath him, pretending to be dead. It was hours later that he was found, petrified, and traumatized, covered head to toe with someone else's blood...

He morosely told me that he no longer wants to be a cricketer, as he had always hoped to be.

"My friends used to bowl and field during our games. Who do I practice with now?"

Sometimes, the simplest questions have the toughest answers.

"Well. What's next?" Shay consults with our team lead, another volunteer from a Medical school. She glances through the file in her hand before smirking at me, "You guys up for Bounce Karachi?"

"THE TRAMPOLINE PARK!?" I croaked. Oh Hells no! I'm a walking, talking diarrhea specimen at the moment. I've wanted to visit the park, ever since it opened up! Trampolines are like chocolates for gymnasts. They make us very very happy! But definitely not after we've gorged on four dozen Golgappas...

"I think you're done for the day, Nightlife." Azaan chuckled, helping me towards his car. "Let's take you home before you make Asad any richer."

"Will you come to the airport tomorrow?" Gohar gets up to tug my sleeves. The kids are going back to their homes tomorrow. I smile at him.

"Do you want me to be there?"

He frowns thoughtfully before shaking his head, "No. I don't like goodbyes."

I swallow the lump in my throat before giving him a one-armed hug, "Hey! There's no goodbyes here! there's only until next time. Okay?"

Since today was our last day as volunteers, it was filled with last-minute hugs, and gift exchanges. I had managed to finagle a few dozen Pakistani Cricket squad shirts through Mama, and it was heartening to see the kids' faces light up when they saw the shirts. But then, some goodbyes are harder than others. I have no idea if I'll ever see them again.

I pushed back the passenger seat in Azaan's car to make it more inclined, trying not to think too much about his nearness. Shay was sprawled in the backseat, headphones in her ears, eyes droopy with exhaustion. Azaan checked the rear-view mirror before putting the car in reverse. I breathed in cautiously, taking in his clean-car smell, mixed with this distinctive male scent I now associated with Azzy The Awesome.

"Tell me a story." I mumbled to him.

This is a game with us. Each time, we ask the other to tell us a story. We get to either make up a fake one, or tell about an actual incident. Then the other person gets to guess whether the story is truth or fiction.

I've come to learn so much about him through these stories! All the tiny details he never openly shares with us, all the bittersweet tales of childhood involving his brother...

"Hmm. So, you wanna know how I got this piercing?" He does a nasal impression of "The Joker". I eye the tiny metal stud in his left ear, before snorting weakly.

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Okay, so I was 14, and Amaan was 16. It was the summer before he started Cadet College. We used to play cricket near this abandoned old building in our Cantonment. And the building was rumored to be haunted by undead souls of Army Batmen."

I smiled gleefully. I loved his army stories. Sometimes, the truth was stranger than fiction when he recounted those.

"Batman are like servants right?"

"Yep. And this particular building was rumored to be haunted by the dead Batman of General Zia-Ul-Haq..."

This was getting better and better. General Zia-Ul-Haq is perhaps the most hated Army dictator of Pakistan's history.

"Anyways, we were playing a pretty rough game, and we lost our last remaining hard-ball when a friend of ours took a shot. In case you don't know, the hard-balls are more expensive, not to mention, this particular ball was our Baba's and Amaan was very fond of it. It was decided that one of us would climb the boundary of the haunted house and fetch the ball back."

I looked at him sideways, his profile was relaxed, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips as he expertly maneuvered the steering wheel with one hand. His hair ruffling from the light breeze coming from the open car windows.

"We arm-wrestled to decide who'd actually go in, and my brother lost. Our friends were so scared that they grabbed their cricket bats and ran home. Only I stayed back. Bless my brother, he climbed inside the rickety old place, and found the ball, before climbing back out. Afterwards, he seemed a little creeped out, but nothing too drastic...Until we got home, and he caught a fever."

I groaned in sympathy. This part is like a necessary element of local urban legends involving haunted houses. The "Victims" always end up in a fevered coma after encountering supernatural characters. (And no, they don't look anything like the Winchester brothers!)

"By Nighttime, the fever had worsened so much, that he was actually delirious with it. He couldn't even see us properly. Just kept crying about some egg sandwich our Mom forgot to gave him ten years ago."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

"Pretty soon, his skin started yellowing and stuff. Baba was on training in Sindh at that time, and Mom was alone with five kids, and she was freaking out. And to make matters worse, my Dadi arrived."

I have heard more than I probably need to hear about the infamous Kulsoom Dadi (His Dad's mother).

"Until now, I had kept quiet about the whole haunted house adventure, but when she started interrogating all of us, I caved in like Asad encountering a vintage belt buckle. She must have recited the Ayat-Ul-Kursi (Prayer for protection) ten times while I was still recounting the story. It was madness after that! she phoned her "Spiritual Guide" this senile old Moulvi Sahab who thinks that Television is a mass-hypnotism device created by mini Sheitans (Satan), just by the way..."

I'm trying not to laugh too hard at this, my stomach is still a health hazard!

"So the 'Spiritual Guide' suggests after consulting with his own pet spirit, that a dark shadow has followed my brother home, and that he needs to bleed, in order to purge the evil." He shakes his head ruefully before continuing, "Kulsoom Dadi was about to jab Amaan's hand with a meat cleaver when Mom came to her senses. She begged the crazy old man to prescribe something less drastic. And he said, 'Well, maybe you could just get his left ear pierced'."

"Oh. My. God. This is the most bat-shit craziest thing I've ever heard! Isn't your family familiar with the concept of hospitals? Doctors? Medicinal Science?"

He snickered, "Dude, My mother is incredibly superstitious. And the horrific tales of demon possession that Kulsoom Dadi scarred us with, can actually put the fear of God in most sane people. So we called this neighbor lady, who used to pierce ears for my sisters, and she did the honors of putting this silver metal stud in his ear, all of us were forced to sit around our brother and recite verses from the Holy Quran to incite the evil shadow to leave his pale body," His grin fades slowly, "Later, when Baba returned home the next day, he was raving mad when he found out what Mom had done. We took Amaan to a hospital, where he was diagnosed with Jaundice. He eventually recovered fully, but Mom wouldn't let him take off the stud. It was frustrating, but she is very much in awe of my Dadi's crazy ideas. The problem was the teasing that followed my brother. Do you remember my cousin Ali? from the concert?"

I nodded.

"He has a younger sister, about our age, Mina. Anyways, she used to tease my brother a lot about his piercing! and not just her, but a bunch of other kids in the neighborhood were making fun of poor Amaan too. He was too much of a Mama's boy, to disobey her. So I decided to give the teasers something else to make fun of..."

I'm dumbfounded. I always thought his piercing was a macho fashion statement. I cannot explain the wave of tenderness that courses through my body for him. He is a good soul, through and through.

"Your Mom must have been ecstatic about that." I mused.

"Oh yeah! She was pretty horrified when I did it. Kulsoom Dadi threatened to drag me to her Moulvi Sahab, because she was convinced that I was "possessed" too. When Amaan started college, he stopped wearing it, so I took it off too, until he...you know." He shrugs matter-of-factly. "I wear it now, whenever I miss him. Mom doesn't say anything when she sees it. It's just my way of holding on to him. It's silly I know."

"Truth." I smiled at him, "You just told me a true story."

"Yep. I did. Your turn now. Tell me a story, Nightlife."

It goes without saying that it is very easy to tell him stuff. Whenever he bugs me to talk to my brother, I think about telling him about Zaif's indiscretions, but I always chicken out.

My relationship with my brother is tensed at this time. He always has a million explanations for why he did what he did. I avoided him for weeks, before I finally gave in and Skyped with him

"Laylee, I can't even voice the things he was saying about you. Absolutely no self-respecting brother alive would let anyone get away with saying those words about his sister. I should have killed him for what he said...and for what he did." Zaif's face was a mask of fury and shame in the screen in my hands.

I couldn't even meet his eyes when he finally said those words. He knew about it. My Humiliation. My Disgrace. My ignominy.

"I know it's pointless...but, why didn't you ever tell me?" His voice was deep with regret and sorrow.

"I was ashamed, Zaif, just like you were, I presume. Because you never told me about the shooting either."

Naive or not, I had let someone touch me in unforgivable places. How was I supposed to talk about it with my older brother? Somehow, talking about it with my therapist and Azaan had been easier than this.

Now sitting in the car, I racked my brain for a plausible story. I surreptitiously checked the backseat where Shay was almost nodding off. This story, was a group gossip, and we all know that Shay is a bit of a blabber mouth.

"Ahem. Okay, so this is pretty crazy. A week ago, I was looking for a free study room in the Tabba Building, and one of the attendants told me to check out rooms 2, and 3 in the North Wing. I was just turning a corner for the corridor when I saw Faris enter this empty room with another girl."

Azaan's eyebrows reached his hairline at this. "False story. Faris is Asexual, as far as we've determined. He's like fungus...or butterflies...wait. Do butterflies do hanky panky?"

I actually agreed with him there. Faris is someone we cannot imagine being in a relationship with anyone. If I hadn't heard the whole conversation with my own ears, I'd never swallow this information down.

I frown at Azaan before continuing, "I'm not done yet! Anyways, I took the empty room adjoining theirs to work on my calculus assignment, but you know how you can hear people through the partition?"

He nods slowly.

"Most of it was muffled, but I heard him say, 'I'll leave my family for your sake. We have to be together. Please marry me. This is fate, blah blah'..." My story was cut off from a sharp gasp from the backseat.

I spun around to find Pareeshae, now wide awake, staring horrified at me, her eyes brimming with disappointment.

Crap.

Crappity crap, on a crapstick!

"Is it true, Layla? Is this a true story?" She whispered.

It hit me then.

She liked Faris!

My brain was taking too long to process this information. but my tongue was way ahead of it...

"It's true." I blurted out.
Oh. My God. I needed to stop!

But seriously? PAREESHAE IS INTO FARIS!? What is the world coming to?

It's like Honey Boo Boo falling for Darth Vader...

Azaan was simultaneously swearing at Faris, and a rickshaw that was trying to overtake our car.

"Uhh, Peeshay? You alright?" I squeaked tentatively when she hid her face in her hands. I twisted my back to pat her shoulder.

"Yeah. Yeah of course I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be..." She said bitterly, angrily swiping away at her wet eyes.

There it is. The word "Fine".

"I'm fine." People say. When they're anything but.

"I'm fine." You say after a breakup, or a lay-off.

"You look fine honey." Husbands say to their hugely pregnant wives.

"I'm fine." she says over and over.

And we all know what that means, don't we?

Author's Note:

Hello there! :D
So how many of you know Kulsoom Nani from "Not That Interested"?
Ofcourse in this case she is a "Dadi" because her relationship with Mina/Ali and Azaan is different.

Anyways. Hope you enjoyed this one. It might be harder to update in the next few days. Finals. Education. Life. Y'know? :P

Please do give me honest feedback about this book! <3 I'd love to hear from you. :)

Don't forget to VOTE AND COMMENT!

Peace.

-E