"I'm convinced that group projects were created by Satan, to test the horizons of student stress-to-CGPA ratios. Allow me to break down the typical composition of any group;

*The Doer: Actually does his/her share of work on time. (Might just be a myth. Like Mermaids. Or Atlantis.)

*The Sayer: Says He/She will do the work, but actually doesn't. (Wajib-ul-qatal this one).

*The No-Show: He/She disappears seconds after joining the project, and reappears seconds before the submission deadline. They don't care that the rest of the team is struggling, or that the project is worth 20% of the overall grade.

*The Weakest Link: Has the enthusiasm, humor and boundless energy to support The Doers, but lacks expertise, knowledge and everything else needed to make the project a success. (We call them "Kaaf Say Kacchee" in Urdu.)

*The Negotiator: Cleverly volunteers to do the easiest job in the project (i.e. Printing the report, or changing the presentation slides, or something like that), then sits back and relaxes while the rest of the group is contemplating communal suicide.

*Batman: Every group has a dark knight. The one you don't deserve, but the one you desperately need. He/She swoops in at the last moment, just as the train is about to run off the broken bridge, or the bomb is about to pop off. They are focused, organized, smart and you better kiss their asses for the rest of the semester, if you want that A-minus...... (Nitty Gritty, Issue Number, 1009, April, 2015)

"Let's see how many of you remember the rules from last time!" I called out to the sea of five year olds. "What should we do if someone gives us an un-safe touch?"

The chorus of "Pick me! Pick me!" drowned out Ms. Delores' chiding plea for discipline.

"Saadi? would you like to share with us?" I pointed at the excited-looking chubby kid.

"WE SHOULD ASK AN ADULT FOR HELP!" He yelled enthusiastically.

"Woah, man! I can't hear you! you speak too softly!" Azaan pretended to pout, making the class giggle.

I was so nervous about the final play the next day, that I hadn't even taken the time to fully appreciate his unusually conscientious wardrobe choice for today. As a Junior-year student, he was applying for different recruitment drives for a summer internship. He had a screening phase interview in the afternoon today.

Since most Multinationals frowned upon faded jeans, and leather jackets during interviews, he was neatly dressed in a dark blue dress-shirt, the cuffs folded back, paired with crisp khaki chinos. His close-trimmed beard was a mere shadow, darkening over his lips, and under the stubborn jut of his chin. His ear-stud was missing.

He caught me staring, and surreptitiously winked at me, dark eyes sparkling with intelligent humor.

My heart skipped a beat. And I turned away from him, resisting the urge to tousle up his neatly tamed hair. It looked really soft, barely brushing against his nape.

"I WANT MY CANDY NOW!" Saadi yelled at the same tempo, making the kids laugh some more. Azaan obligingly offered him his pick from the "Treasure Chest" (candy basket) as the kids called it.

"Very good Saadi!" My eyes searched for Amina, for the next question, but I couldn't find her. I tried not to let my confusion spread across my face. "Who can tell me the un-safe parts of their body?...Yes, Rabia?..."

At the end of our session, Azaan left to confirm the details of our next visit with the Vice Principal of the school, and I casually approached Ms. Delores to ask about Amina.

"Is she absent today?" I asked. My heart sinking a little bit, when Ms. Delores' polite smile slipped.

The cold, resigned sigh she emitted, served to alarm me further.

"Amina left the school. Family issues, from what I've heard. Her guardian didn't give us an explanation. She just stopped coming since around three weeks ago."

I was dumbfounded; all sorts of horrifying scenarios running through my head.

"Didn't you inquire? is there any way I can inquire? a contact number maybe? address?" I asked desperately. I don't know why, but it cut into me, the possibility that I might have saved her from whatever fate befell her, if only I had managed to reach out to her sooner, which is pretty irrational of me...

Ms. Delores' eyes look ancient, belying her mid-thirties age. She shakes her head ruefully.

"The school doesn't have the resources to keep track, or even bother with our student attendance. However, I take the well-being of my students very personally. I have three kids, and in each of these thirty-five faces, I see a reflection of my own babies...so you can imagine how hard it is for me, knowing that one of my students is facing a hard family life, but being unable to do anything about it."

I nod mechanically, mentally numbing myself for whatever pain I'm about to experience.

"...One of my neighbors is related to Amina's father, and she tells me that her mother died a few weeks ago..."

"Oh my Allah!" I cried out, my hands covering my mouth. I recalled now, how Amina wanted to tell me something about her mother...The poor girl was so tiny! barely five! and already bearing the loss of a parent...

"...apparently, Amina's father had some psychological problem. Schizophrenia, or Bipolarism, or something like that. I personally think he's just pleading insanity to avoid the noose. He used to beat her mercilessly, accusing her of cheating on him. She was the quiet, scared kind, too terrified to ask her family for help. And her family wasn't that well-off, so you can imagine the thoughts running through her poor head; that if she leaves him, how will she ever support her kids? Where will they live? What will they eat?..."

It didn't seem real to me. That someone could be this merciless. That someone's life could be that hard. It made my own problems seem like minor hiccups. How blessed am I? to be able to live a life of security. To be able to trust, and love, and be loved by my own family.

"...He raped her often, in front of their kids, in some twisted attempt to teach his ten year-old son how to deal with 'Cheating whores', as he called her. And when she became pregnant, he denied that it was his own child. The bastard! Believe me, Layla, my blood boils when I think about the sins he committed. May the Lord punish him for it..."

I could feel my throat close up on me. The tears that blurred my vision seemed cathartic; purging the horrors induced by this tale of inhumanity.

"...He tried to abort the baby himself one day and she...just bled out, from what I came to know. At least the kids were at school then, so they didn't see her die. Thank God for small favors..."

"Why didn't she just run away? Ask someone for help? Report that animal to the police?" I asked tearfully. Anything would have been better than slowly dying in such a toxic relationship.

"Help is difficult to get when you're poor, Layla. Running away would have simply exposed her to a different brand of horrors. How do you think a respectable woman can survive in this world on her own? Without financial, and familial support? Without a roof over her head? It doesn't matter whether you're a Princess or a Penny whore. It's a man's world, my dear. And what do you suppose the police would have done? Our law enforcement isn't created for the protection of poor women. You have to know the bogus Shari'a inspired laws that are prevalent here. Apparently, rape isn't rape, if you're married to the person! You called him an animal... I think the man is an insult to animals."

The bitterness in Ms. Delores' words gnawed away at my privileged sensibilities. I felt ashamed to be part of a social class, whose most pressing problem was whether their Fendi clutches clashed with their Louboutins. Especially in times when these women were literally fighting for their right to live a normal domestic life.

Not being raped and physically abused by your spouse, shouldn't be a privilege. It should be a basic right! Nobody should have fight for it.

"Ms. I... I'm at a loss for words." I felt my face crumpling, I turned away from her for a second, gulping down the tears clogging my throat. The soft pat on my shoulder from the older woman only made it marginally better. "Please. Please do me a favor?"

"Of course dear. Anything for you."

"If you come to hear about any students' mother or sister facing a similar situation, can you please give me a call?" I sounded almost desperate.

My mind was currently overwhelmed by images of a shy, thumb-sucking, dark haired five year old, who'd lost her only loving parent.

"If the only problem is a lack of financial help, and a roof over their heads, then I can help them! Our house is too big for four people! Please, Please. Promise me that you'll call me?" My hands shook as I scribbled my personal cell number onto a piece of ten rupee note, which was the first paper-like object that touched my hands within the depths of my backpack.

Ms. Delores hugged me in response, refusing to answer me, even though I kept manically repeating my request.

Please.

Please.

Please.
......

I was under the impression that I masked my misery really well during our car-ride back to campus, after the volunteer drive. Even if he noticed my morose mood, Azaan never uttered a single word, choosing to chat up with Khan the guard instead. They talked cricket for quite a while.

Ever since he found out that Azaan is from an Army family, Khan has been a huge fan of him.

I take comfort in the fact that Azaan respects my silence. My moods. When I want to just be alone and miserable. He can sense when I need to let go...but most importantly, when I need to keep it inside.

There's a déjà vu type feeling in the car.

This volunteering makes me miserable. This time, in a very unselfish way.

"Sahab aaj bohot smart lagrahay hain! Kher toh hay?" (Sir, you look very smart today. Is everything alright?) Khan jokingly teases Azaan.

"Yaar, Khan. Mein toh roz smart lagta hoon. Aap kiya baat kar rahay hain?" (Dude, Khan, I look smart everyday man, what're you talking about?) Azaan joked back. He tried to involve me in the conversation, but I couldn't even be bothered to look at him, let alone talk and laugh.

He gave up soon, opting to plug in his earphones. He has this weird addiction to cooking-show podcasts. I often tease him, that his obsession with food extends to all five senses...

He closed his eyes as he often does, lost in the music of food, occasionally giving me side-long glances, but not disturbing my silence.

I was glad.

At this point, just thinking about the case was inducing a head splitting headache for me. The piercing kind, which starts somewhere near your nape, and then blossoms upwards to the center of your skull. This excruciating throb of steady agony.

And I'm just thinking. Imagine LIVING it...

When we reached campus, I dazedly walked past the security guard without flashing the student ID card at him, as is required. Consequently, I had to silently suffer a chiding lecture on campus security from one of the safety patrollers. They've gotten extra sensitive after the APS massacre. All educational institutions are under threat from terrorists.

Terrorism. Female oppression. Domestic violence. Sexual abuse...

Life needs to stop with the damned lemons, already. I have enough to make lemonade for the entire population of Karachi. And then some.

I was so numb with tension, that I almost jumped out of my skin when we were near the Auditorium entrance, and Azaan started pulling my backpack in the direction of the deserted restroom area.

"Hey! What the-!?" I tried yanking my backpack out of his grasp, to no avail.

"Layla. I'm going to ask this once, and once alone." Azaan's face was an impassive mask of stubbornness. "Who made you cry?"

The serious set of his mouth told me that he wouldn't let it go easily. But I needed him to let it go. If I even think about Amina's mother right now...I won't be able to perform well on our final rehearsal due to start in ten minutes.

"I'm not crying." I lied, drawing a shuddering breath.

"I trust you miss..." Amina's delicate face loomed in my vision. "My mother..."

My throat ached with tears that had collected up during the car ride.

Azaan's face softened. His tone lowering.

"Fine. I'll ask one more time. Who. Made. You. Cry? And do you have their postal address? Because I can make crazy things happen with my laptop... "

"It's not a safe touch..." Amina's had spoken in class only once in two weeks. Her thumb forever secured in her mouth. Most likely, a remnant of intense psychological terror. She had trouble maintaining eye contact with me. I wonder if her father beat her too...she looked so fragile. So defeated.

"I'm not crying." I growled back. Ineffectively. Tearfully.

"Oh yeah? Then how come I'm wiping away tears from your eyes, Nightlife?" His soft voice nearly undid me. His rough hands were cradling my face, as if it were made of glass. His thumbs sweeping away at the wetness on my cheeks. "Tell me what's wrong, or I'll just make Qais cry again. And we've actually become friends now, so that would be awkward."

I snorted a laugh-cry.

"Azaan sometimes I feel like this world was created for the pleasure, and whim of men. As a woman, I have no human value, I'm simply a vessel. Aren't I? A uterus. Created for carnal use. I'm only as good as the men responsible for me choose to treat me...and that makes me cry." I finally choked out, stepping away from him.

His face was frozen into an expression of stunned horror. I took perverse pleasure in reminding him of his gender's evils. It was irrational, and unfair. But I've realized that life events are rarely rational and fair.

I stared him down. Daring him to object. And he did. Just not in the way I had anticipated.

"Layla. You're as good as YOU choose to make yourself. You're beautiful, and strong, and stunning, and it has nothing to do with your body..."

His words were artless, spontaneous. And inspite of myself...I wanted to believe every syllable.

I soon realized that I did believe every syllable.

"You're a survivor. You're an idea, Layla. An inspiration. You're indestructible..."

I could hear the chatter of actors, and crew members from inside the auditorium, but Azaan's words entranced me.

"...Why would you be defined by the men in your life anyways? Your heart is bigger than the stars. You're Laili and Majnun both. You don't need me to tell you this, because in your heart of hearts, you already know it..."

I do know it.

I know that I love him as a friend.

I know that I'm now also in love with him.

I thought that realization of love would be a Eureka moment. Astounding. Shocking. Crazy.

But it was so simple for me. It was natural. And inexorable. It was without fireworks, and hearts and flowers and unicorns. Maybe that's why I actually believed it.

Azaan is right. I'm both Laili and Majnun.

I'm Adorer and Adored.

Because I can see it. The way his eyes see me better than myself. The way he defies every male stereotype I loathe. The way he respects the women in his life; from his mother, to his friends. The way he makes me laugh, when I'm at my worst. The way he puts me first, silently, without making a big deal out of it.

I trust him like no other. With my body. With my secrets. With my ugliness.

He sees me, and it doesn't repel him.

He sees me, and he doesn't pity me.

He sees me, and he sees...more.

For me. For my tiny, insignificant world. More is everything.
More is what I've always wanted.

It doesn't fix bullet holes. It doesn't bring Amina's mother back to life. It doesn't make my mother a less bitter woman. It doesn't wipe away my past humiliation...

Yet it gives me immense hope for the future.

And somehow. It's enough.

"... It's okay if you don't want to tell me what made you cry. And I won't try to convince you that all men are good men, and that the world is a happy place. There are a lot of assholes around, Layla. I should know, because I'm one of them. But don't let the negatives overpower the positives. While Allah created hell, and sin, and sadness, and death, he also created heaven, and bliss and happiness, and life. Denying yourself the pleasure of positive thinking is like traveling to the Maldives, and shutting yourself up in a public toilet. I mean...it's Okay. For a while, I guess. But if you do it for the entire trip, then you sure as hell don't get to say, 'Dude. Maldives is a shithole. I dunno what the fuss is about anyways.' You get what I'm saying?"

I felt lighter now. Sad. But less depressed. I wanted to laugh at his ridiculous life logic, but I barely had the energy for a smile.

"I get what you're saying. Thanks Dr. Phil." I peeked shyly at him, as he looked surprised at my acquiescence. I usually argue my points to my dying breath.

"Uh. OK then. Good girl." He half-smiled, giving me a brotherly pat on the head, gesturing towards the Auditorium. "Kick some Qais Ass in there for me. I have to leave for the interview now. And remember to raise your voice in the third act. Faris is going nuts over it. I'll bring you lunch in an hour, so DONOT eat stale sandwiches from the afternoon café. The last thing this play needs is a diarrheal Lailee..."

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

'Are you nervous?' Maria signed at me in the crowded dressing room. The tensed anticipation in the room was so tangible, I could reach out and touch it. I touched the braided bun my light brown has been twisted into. It was glittering with strategically entwined diamante pins that Pareeshae the resident hairdresser had stuck in. My flowing lilac and cream dress was so detailed that it looked like it weighed a ton. However, Maria's brilliant faux designs was very lightweight. It was especially made for the ease of movement for the actors.

Fatima's (AKA Shirin) dress was even more detailed than mine, with a darker pink, and violet hue. Because her character was an actual Princess, while Lailee was a noblewoman.

Qais and Farhad were simply dressed in rough looking cotton kurtas, and plain trousers. Qais was strutting around with his shirt undone to his navel. ("Adds more desperation to the character!"). In vibrant contrast, Khusro was splendidly dressed in a flowing golden cape, heavily embellished with fake jewels. His turban was a glorious creation of gold and burgundy.

The stage was a study of ancient wooden doorways for the palace scenes, and foliage covered, movable pillars for the forest scenes.

The auditorium comfortably seated an audience of 600 people, and from the sounds I could hear from outside, it was obvious that the place would soon be overflowing. The drama club volunteers were actually debating throwing floor cushions to accommodate people sitting on floors.

"Alright, my lovelies. Listen up." Juwariya suddenly appeared in the cramped place. The strains of live qawwali (Sufi) music flowed in after her, until she shut the door behind her. "We have a couple of celebrities in the crowd tonight, so I don't want you to freak out or anything. They poop just like you do. Hold onto that information, and you'll do as fantastic as we did in the rehearsal yesterday. Capiche?"

We blinked at this bizarre pep talk.

"Oh for God's sake Juju. We're all fucking professionals here. We don't give a fuck who watches. We're here to do what we fucking love. This one's for Nizami!" Faris hollered off.

We blinked some more.

"My speech was better." Juju smirked. "Anyhoo. Be brave. Be beautiful. Be yourselves. Don't go breaking any legs, dudes. I have no idea why people even say that before these things..."

'What does she mean by celebrities?' I signed to my sister.

She had the grace to blush at this.

'Uh, I told Mama that you wanted her to be here. She decided to make it a date with Lynette, and Maheen.'

I closed my eyes with irritated nervousness. Lynette was an upcoming film director. Her work was recently nominated in the foreign film category, at the Oscars. Hayat's was the official design house for her next films, so she and Mama were really hitting it off.

I felt totally chill about my amateurish acting in front of an award winning Director. Not.

'You all right Lil?' Maria worriedly fiddled with my dress. 'She just wants to be a part of your accomplishments, she was so proud when I told her that you had a leading role...'

My sister will never get it. How I'm never enough for Mama. She'll pretend to be proud around others as she usually does. And then she'll later tell me where I went wrong, what I lacked, why I should do things her way, if I wanted to get somewhere.

It gnaws at me. Her perfectionism. Everything in her life is pretty much perfect. Except for me. Broken, scarred, talentless little Layla.

I've long since stopped trying to please her. Her demands are impossible, and they're never ending. Like an infinite abyss of 'Not enough'.

'Its okay, Maria. I'm not doing this for her,'

I'm doing this for myself. And I'm the only one who matters right now.

When we finally walked onstage, I realized what it means to have shaky knees. It is awe inspiring to look up at hundreds of expectant faces, and to realize that you have to make them feel something.

Mama was naturally given the best seats of the house. Front and center. The drama club photographers were unsurprisingly fixated on her. Mama just stared ahead, as if she had camera flashes going on her face everyday. Which is kinda true, just by the way.

I deliberately avoided looking at Mama.

I uttered a prayer under my breath, as the opening music gained full swing.

Pretty soon, the bedazzled figure of Faris, walked in the spotlight, articulately delivering his first monologue, drawing gasps of laughter at the witty content.

Countless hours of rehearsals had perfected our rhythms. I delivered my lines with passion, syncing perfectly with Qais' verses.

I almost forgot a line when I made the mistake of looking out into the audience, and catching sight of Azaan in the front row, manning his video camera equipment. He had a huge dimpled smile plastered on his face, as he gave me a cheeky thumbs up.

He looked effortlessly attractive. With his short, dark hair an untamed buzz, black leather jacket falling open over his plain white shirt. His scruff was darker today. Just enough to drive me crazy.

Mine. Mine. Mine. A voice chanted in my head.

I flushed, heat crawling up my neck under the harsh limelight of the stage.

I didn't look at the audience again.

"O, Qais. If my love were an ocean, there would be no more land.

If my love were a desert,
Thou would see only sand.

If my love could grow wings,
I'd be soaring high in flight!"

It felt exhilarating to declare my love so publicly. It was my co-actor's arms that surrounded me, but my thoughts were shackled by someone else.

He gave me strength, like I'd never imagined. I felt bold, and slightly wicked, announcing my passions in front of an audience. But at least nobody knew the words for the truth they held.

It was my secret. Mine.

Even with the minor glitches, the play went spectacularly well. Khusro was the crowd-favorite, with his eccentric accents, and crazy ideas. He swished about narrating the tale of love and woe, in a condescending, satirical manner that left the audience in stitches.

They actually hooted whenever he made an entrance.

But nothing stunned them more than when he turned spiritual. He made it seem so effortless, and natural. His love for the divine could be felt coursing through his words. He seemed to breathe it.

The live Sufi music just added to the surrealistic nature of the climax.

As an epilogue, a livelier Classical number was played, as the two couples twirled around the stage surrounded by other twirling mystics. This was a metaphorical depiction of their divine, wedded bliss.

I barely noticed Qais' proximity. He didn't matter. I've found that with enough strength...Nothing really does.

As we bowed away to thundering applause, and standing ovation, I felt unreal. This all felt like a dream, and I couldn't believe that it was finally over. Months of pain, and tears, and fears...poof. Done.

I could feel my lungs expand with the grateful, relieved sigh of someone who's just completed the toughest final exam they've ever sat for.

Something really interesting happened that night. I don't know if he had planned it before, or the courage of crowd-fueled adrenaline have him inspiration, but a certain foul-mouthed Khusro made a very peculiar parting announcement that night.

As the people got ready to leave, he tapped on his microphone once. Coughing out a Hello.

"Hey, um. I've got a message to deliver here." His deep voice reverberated around the giant hall, ceasing the excited chatter around the crowd.

I got distracted from Faris for a second as Azaan bounded up the stage area stairs, behind the hidden alcove where I was waiting for the crowd to thin out. I barely had time to register his shit-eating grin, before he lifted me up in a bear hug. I squeaked as I felt my feet leave the ground.

I actually had to hold onto his neck for support, my heart planning to leave my ribcage. I was surrounded by his clean soap and aftershave scent, and for the second time tonight, I felt heat rise up my cheeks.

"CONGRATULATIONS! You were a beautiful Laila, Nightlight. Perfection! I couldn't look away." He finally put me down, thankfully, still supporting my weak-kneed body. "I got flowers for everyone! Mostly for my talented best friends. But everyone can have some!"

The other actors laughed, as he dramatically brandished a bunch of Lilies at me. They looked slightly crushed, the aftermath of our hug no doubt.

"Um. Thanks?" I mumbled shyly as I accepted a trio of beautiful Lily stalks.

He distributed the remaining stalks, one by one to the rest of the team. Flirting his way around the female population. It didn't bother me in the slightest. It was enough that he was there for me before anyone else. I just inhaled at my own bigger floral bunch with contentment. I get to choose what matters to me.

"...so I have a message for the author of this Red Note." Faris' voice jerked me out of my reverie. He was brandishing a tiny, frayed looking red note at the general crowd.

"Holy shit." I gasped. My eyes seeking out Shay in the audience. She was in the middle of chatting with Syra, and Faris' words made her freeze, with her back to the stage. The entire auditorium went silent with curious anticipation.

"...to the author of this Note. You have to know that it made me lose a lot of fucking sleep. I'm a fucking awesome writer, and an even better poet. But it took me two months to write a reply to you..."

Shay's trembling hands covered her face, not even looking up at the stage.

"...can you please turn around, so I can say these words to your face."

Slowly. Taking an eternity to move around. Shay turned. Her hands were still covering her face. She looked white with horror.

My own heart was going crazy. I know Faris loves her. But what exactly is he doing with a microphone? He looked ridiculous in his turban, and Jeweled robes, dropping F-bombs like Jonah Hill.

And then he finally spoke;

"Roses are red. Violets are blue.
I kind of feel the same way too."

I laughed as people started hooting. They had no idea who he was speaking to.

But she knew. And she was currently kneeling near the stage area, sobbing her eyes out.

"I have no idea what's going on here." Azaan muttered to me, frowning as Faris bowed once more, tossing his turban to a volunteer, making his way towards Shay.

"You don't have to know it, Azaan. You have to feel it." I whispered, a happy lump of tears in my throat.

I don't know if there's a happy ending for me. But someone wise once told me that I shouldn't deny myself, the pleasure of positive thinking. So I'm going to hold onto it.

Hope.
Mine.

Author's Note:

This chapter makes me happy. Very satisfied with it. Please point out typos!! Hate editing!

I mentioned some pretty twisted laws in our country, and I'm talking about the useless Hudood ordinance laws that among other things, require four witnesses for a woman to prove rape. Not a single case of marital rape has been convicted in Pakistan. (Duh. How do you get four witnesses in marital rape anyways?) I could rant for hours about about the tragedy of our "Justice" system.

On another note; one of Laila's poetic quotes in the play is stolen from Jay Asher's novel. So not mine! I don't do poetry.

The three Sufi songs that I've chosen for the play are:

1) Aaj Rung Hay by Hadiqa Kiani (Coke Studio)
2) Kun Fayakun by A. R. Rahman. (Rockstar movie)
3) Ghar Nari by Abu Muhammad and Farid Ayaz (Ho Mann Jahan Movie)

Don't forget to VOTE and COMMENT!

Thanks for loving this book! :* it means a lot to me.
-E.