Then:
"IBSA's society launches are unnerving the freshman population it seems. This author saw no less than five freshie boys hiding in the water closet to avoid being made "Volunteers" at the launch ceremonies taking place left and right. A word of seasoned advice: The library is a more favorable hiding place. Nobody goes in there...."

(Nitty Gritty-Issue No: 322 Sept '14)

I know I'm dreaming.
I know this isn't real.
But it's too close, too vivid for my comfort.

"Lift your shirt for me." Musa's voice is soft. It is at odds with his rough hands. "You know I love you, right?" His reassurances do little to calm my anxiousness.

"Please. No." I try tugging my shorts up, but he is stepping on them, wrapped around my ankles. My throat is clogged with tears, and I know that this isn't right. But he is big. And he is beautiful.

So very beautiful.

"Everybody does this Layla!" He squeezes my arm as his hand gropes under my shirt.

"I d-don't like this Musa. P-Please don't! I-I'll tell Ruby. Or Mama..."

His eyes panicked for a second, before they narrowed wickedly. "But you said that you like me. Shall I tell your Mama what you said? Or your brother?"

"No." I gulped back tears, "I don't want you to tell them..."

I woke up panting, alone in my bed, I fought against the tears, and the violent shivers that always accompanied my flashback episodes.

I can still feel his hands yanking at my clothes. I can still feel the humiliation coursing through my blood, thick and tangible, as if it's fresh, from every encounter with him. This guilt, and self-disgust is something I wake up with everyday. It's like having braces you can never remove from your teeth. Or maybe a kidney transplant you can't undo. It's destined to be a part of you.

He is a part of me. My tormentor.

I shrugged on an extra wrap around my shoulders as I hunted for the Air conditioner's remote. The chills attacked me at odd times. I was probably the only person in sizzling Karachi city, who carried a cashmere with me, all year round. I yanked open dress drawers and book shelves to hunt for the damned thing. Maria often hides my A/C remote when she's hanging around my room. My sister is pretty much a polar bear when it comes to room temperature.

It's nearly 7 in the morning, so I trudge over to her room on the floor below mine, making my way towards her Princess canopy bed. My sister is sleeping on her side, arms tucked under her head, long auburn hair spread artlessly across her pillow. I simply stare at her perfection for a minute. Maria is a better-looking version of my drop dead gorgeous mother. Traditionally, she's the kid, other siblings are supposed to hate; the perfect one.

It's utterly impossible to hate my darling older sister though. Yes, she got the genetic lottery from the Hayat Gene Pool, but I don't begrudge her for that. In many ways, I have a lot of things she'll never have...

I try shaking her awake, she yanks away her shoulder to bury herself further in her pillows. It's no use yelling at her, so I pinch her ears next, and she hums in annoyance. I look around the huge girly room for inspiration. A grin spreads across my face as I spot the hand-held electric masseuse lying on one of her dainty, pink coffee tables.

Maria springs awake wildly when I touch the vibrating thing to her arm. Her huge brown eyes swinging wildly from me to the machine. She scowls adorably, bringing her hands up to rapidly sign at me, 'Are you sick?'

I shook my head. striding up to her window, and pressing the automatic blinds open. The sun slowly materialized from beneath the softly whirring blinds, bathing the room with the kind of glow, you can find only during early morning time.

A throw pillow hit me from behind, making me turn back to Maria.

'Are you dying?' she signed again. Her eyes puffy from sleep.

I rolled my eyes. 'No'. I signed back.

'You better be AT LEAST mildly upset, if you woke me up for no reason.' Her fingers were fumbling with remnants of sleep.

'Did you hide my A/C remote again? I was freezing down there!' I rubbed my arms to create heat from friction.

Her eyes widen as she nods guiltily, 'Sorry. I meant to put it back...'

I follow her out of the room as she makes her way towards the mini kitchenette on her floor. I want to laugh, and strangle her when she withdraws my lost remote from the Sub-zero fridge. 'You have to make me Maggi now. As compensation.' I said to her before I vaulted myself onto the tall island counter in the middle of the cooking space. Maria laughed silently when she saw the perfect split my legs were stretched in.

'After all these noodle pig-outs, how on earth do you still have a thigh gap?' She teased me, withdrawing an instant noodle cup from a junk cabinet she stores just for me.

'I burn a lot of it with extensive brain use.' I tapped my temple, 'This baby needs fuel.'

She hums back. Setting up Snoopy placemats, and coordinating plates and forks on the counter.

I love it when she babies me like this. I have a feeling that she loves it too. It makes her feel a measure of self-assurance to take care of someone for a change.

In some ways, it seems like I spent my entire life looking out for my older sister. Being speech and hearing impaired may not be a huge disability in most societies, and countries, but Pakistan is pathetically ill-equipped to accommodate people like Maria.

This was one of the major reasons why Mom decided to move her to England seven years ago, to live with my maternal grandparents who were situated in a city near London. I was 11 at that time, Maria was 13, and Zaif, my one and only older brother was 14. Mom used to fly back and forth between Leeds and Karachi, to keep up with her fashion line. We made more than 4-5 trips every year to visit her, and even though it wasn't the same, somehow, my sister's personal growth was more important for me than my constant longing to be near her, and protect her.

As a twenty year old young woman, Maria has now blossomed into a capable, confident individual, with her own talents and interest. She is a fashion freak like my Mom (Surprise surprise!) And even though both of them are snooty about their own designs, I know that Mama is intensely proud of her. This year, Maria has flatly refused to head back to England. She wants to try living here for a change. So far, Mom hasn't shot down the idea...

My sister snaps me out of my daze, and I give her a big fake smile in gratitide for the steaming, soupy noodles she poured out for me.

"So. You made friends at University yet?" She asks eagerly, just like she does almost everyday. My mute sister thinks I'm too anti-social. There is irony hidden here somewhere, waiting to bite me in the ass.

I nodded shortly, slurping down my favorite Indo-Mei flavor. It's probably some sort of corporate law violation, but I refer to all and any type of instant noodles as Maggi.

"How many friends? Do they know who you are? Did any cute guys approach you yet?"

I nearly burn my throat in my hurry to swallow. 'One friend. She doesn't know. And there are no cute guys at the place, so alas, they can never approach me.' I lied to her.

'That's statistically impossible. There has to be atleast ONE guy who's not hideous.'

'Nope. Not a single looker there.' I ignored the spontaneous image of a tall, dimpled jerk that popped into my brain. 'The girls are gorgeous though. Everywhere I look, is a middle finger to my self esteem'

Maria frowned at that, 'You're gorgeous too. In your own, pixie-ish sort of way.'

I shrugged.

'Stop belittling yourself Lil...' She leaned over to kiss my head.

'Is the pun intended?" I teased her, earning an exasperated eye roll.

'Lil. I want you to try and meet new people for a change. Make more friends. Find people you connect with, it's an important part of self development you know.' She gives me a worried glance, 'You chose business studies. It's practically all about people skills...'

I pushed away my empty bowl moodily. 'It's not like I had a choice in the matter, Maria. Mom basically told me it was either this, or early employment at Hayat's.'

Hayat is my Mom's empire. It started with a niche designer closet thingie, but it's now an international fashion franchise and style icon, with sub divisions branching into a beauty salon, and most recently; a fashion magazine.

My Mom never explicitly told me to pursue business; to be honest, she never says anything explicitly...she just makes her opinions known through other subtle ways. When I got into Oxford in a political sciences degree, she basically refused to pay the tuition fee. We didn't speak for a month afterwards. She then proceeded to go behind my back, submitting SAT scores and stuff, to clear my way into IBSA.
"You can get your graduate degree from abroad, darling." She had waved the admission letter near my face

I seriously debated asking Dad for my inheritance money, but I knew this whole event would become just another power struggle between Mom and Dad, with my mother playing the silent martyr card for blackmail. Ever since he remarried, my father has been overly generous to us kids. As if money is supposed to make up for his absence.

I still wasn't speaking to Mom. It made no sense that she sent Maria away at such a young age, but she can't allow me the same privilege.

My current University did offer political and social sciences as a degree, but I was so pissed off at my luck, that I deliberately chose Business Administration. If I'm going to be miserable; I want to make sure I'm not doing it half assed.

'I want to see facebook tags on your profile sis! I want to see you hanging out with people who make you feel good about yourself, for a change.' Maria's harried teasing tugs at my heart. I know she worries for me; as I do for her.

'I'll try.' I hug her tightly before heading off to University.

Author' Note:

Happy Independence Day to fellow Pakistanis! :) and an early one for my Indian readers!