"Where's Sanam?" Razi fumed at me, knowing full well that I'd refused to divulge my mother's location and condition. 

"I'm here. And that's all you're getting for now." I retorted, waiting for the secret contact person to call us. 

Mama never expressly announced her condition to her employees, but it is obvious that they're aware that something isn't quite right with her. She is in the middle of a series of five surgeries that will hopefully eliminate the cancer from her body.

Despite my protests she refused to head back to England, choosing to get treated at a local cancer hospital. It was a nightmare, convincing the authorities to ensure her special privacy during treatments. No news of her disease has made it to the news yet. 

Not that our family needs more exposure, anyways. 

For that one blessed day in that hospital room, all of us were together. We laughed, cried, hugged a lot. 

Mama made Zaif sing his newest music, much to our collective surprise. 

Maria wanted to know why I was getting home-made food from Azaan Malik's mother. 

(I think I know why)

Mama wanted to know if Azaan had a decent job yet. 

(Err...)

Zaif wanted to know if Azaan still had 'That cool ear stud'. 

(Not that I'd seen)

Maria wanted to know if I had bashed his head with a blunt tool yet. 

(Unfortunately, no.)

We deliberately avoided talking about Musa, Cancer, and Khalid Hayat. 

We did talk about Zaif's failed marriage though. This was the second serious relationship he had ended in the past few years. The first was an engagement to the lead singer of a folk band. Apparently, she wasn't a fan of monogamous relationships, and my brother had little tolerance for cheating. 

He surprised us all during our last Eid visit, by marrying Aisha-a Sikh Indian living in the UAE. While we would never openly oppose his decision by criticizing his wife, (who seemed to be a very decent person), all of us were a little taken aback by this blatant defiance of Islamic values, which prohibit inter-faith marriages. 

The marriage lasted all of 4 months, during which both of them realized that they weren't suited for each other. Religious and cultural differences aside; both of them had very different personalities. She was almost neurotically neat and orderly, while my brother is a slob. She was a career-oriented doctor, while Zaif is a self-employed music producer who works whenever he feels like it. She wanted to help Zaif change his career paths, and my brother sees 'Help' as some sort of pity for his mild dyslexia. 

They parted on appropriately friendly terms with a quickie divorce. 

But I can tell that my brother is in one of his depressive phases. 

He hasn't made music in weeks, and that frustrates him. 

"Why ever would you come home, dumbass?" I pulled at his silky brown hair. Zaif and I share the lighter brown of our Dad's hair, while Maria has Mama's almost-reddish auburn mane. We're now so used to seeing Zaif in longer hair, that even Mama has stopped glaring at it, secretly plotting its demise.

We were alone in my hospital room, while Maria and Mama had gone home to catch up on their jet-lagged sleep.  

"That fart-brained Musa almost got you killed with his stupid press conference Laylee. And then Mama decided to head back home, while she was still on her pre-surgery meds. I just...I needed to see all of you." He breathed tiredly. "I'm tired of hiding away in Dubai like a privileged asshole. Enough is enough! After almost ten years, If he still wants to press charges, he is welcome to it. At this point, I'm willing to go to jail, if it means that I get to stay in Pakistan after I get out. I want to earn the life of a free man." 

"Don't say that." I blinked away angry tears at my brother's misery. "I won't let him take you away. He has taken away too much already. Besides...what if Musa never presses any charges? He knows that we can still release his...his history with me. That wasn't any less criminal!" 

He smiled blankly. A derisive sort of grimace. As if he were questioning my sanity. 

"He knows as well as you do, that I'd rather die than let the world know what he did to you." his words made me want to hug him, and hit him at the same time. "Letting everyone view you as victim, is not on the table, Layla. So forget it." 

"I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. His actions don't define me." I argued back, "If I threaten to release this information, this will scare him into making a deal of some sorts." 

"I know it doesn't define you. But the rest of the world won't be so broad-minded, Laylee. Your credo as a social worker will come under question. People will remember you as the Bechari larki jiskay saath ziadati hui thee (Poor girl, who got compromised). No good ever comes out of throwing a stone in a pile of shit. You need to stay the fuck away from him. Fight him in courts if you must. But stay away from him challenging him publicly. It would be a stupid move."

"You mean as stupid as asking Khan to shoot him in the presence of five CCTV cameras, and three eye-witnesses?" I arched a brow at him. 

He scowled. 

"Yes. Don't be stupid like me. I got carried away when I heard the language he was using for my sister. You didn't hear him, Laylee. He was gloating. Not a hint of remorse in him!" Zaif roughly pushed away the hair from his forehead, "In all honesty, my only regret is that I didn't kill him. Or at least shoot him in the junk or something. Fucker. Would have prevented him from violating others, maybe. It could have been my gift to the world..." 

I smiled humorlessly, "That's what Azaan says." 

"You like him." He stated expressionlessly. 

"I don't dislike him." I pointed out. 

My brother observed me for a while before murmuring, "A word of advice on love: when you lead with the heart; guess which organ gets hurt first?" 

"The pancreas?" I joked. 

"You're awful. Please go away." 

"You go away, moron! This is my hospital room!..."

...........

One of Mama's old friends had convinced an insider on the BCW (Bridal Couture Week) committee, to speak to me about possibly lifting the ban on our brand. When I had called them up, the rest of the board members (all of them Mama's old "friends" and colleagues), had basically told me to suck it up, and accept the fact that Hayat would be losing out their spot in the annual couture event. 

Razi glared at my pale pink, post-burn-baggy, sleeveless kameez, mumbling something about "Fashion trainwrecks", before huffing off to bully Anika: one of the fresh graduates Mama has hired as trainees. 

I ignored him. 

Razi has been one of Mama's right-hand, wing-man for the past decade. He may irritate me with his snooty sniffs, and pointed insults aimed at my wardrobe, makeup, and poor leadership skills, but I have to admit that he is one loyal employee to my mother. In her absence, he has been running the BCW project, taking care to keep Mama's presence alive in the workplace, by putting up posters of her quotes everywhere. 

Quotes such as: "Orange is never the new black. Ever.", "Hayat's is more than just clothes. It's a way of doing life. Make sure our customers are aware of that." , and "If I wanted rhinestones on my denim, I'd shop at Zainab Market." 

He misses her. In his own, stick-up-his-posterior ways. 

"Layla? Hi! I'm Anika, the Design Intern. Razi says he needs you to approve the launch of H-Kids. The CEO wants to know our timeline, so he can coordinate with the finance department." A soft voice interrupts me in my vigil.

Anika is a lovely girl, with pink rosy cheeks, and soft curls that almost hide the discreet tattoo on her neck. Razi mercilessly criticizes her for her slightly plump figure, whenever I'm not around to protect her. At odds with her facial piercings and tattoos, she is such a gentle, sensitive being, that I sometimes wonder how exactly she's planning to survive in this cutthroat world of high fashion. 

"Thanks Anika. Could you ask someone to watch over any calls to Mama's office? I want all of them redirected to my cellphone, if I'm unable to pick it up." She kept nodding, jotting down my instructions. "Also...could you brief me on H-kids? I think this is the first I've heard of it." 

She looks surprised, but immediately starts answering my question while she leads me to the elevator lobby leading away from the corporate offices floor. She pressed the button for the sixth floor marked "Design Area 4". The elevator doors slid shut, and I marveled at the color popping, fashion mural someone from the team had painted at the back of it.

"H-kids is our newest clothing line. Obviously, directed at kids. Sanam was working on this project before her err--vacation." She coughs cautiously before continuing, "You see, we already have a clothing for kids under the umbrella of our traditional and western lines, but we don't have a brand dedicated entirely to them. Your mother has been working on this for years now...and she is just brilliant at what she does, and I thought she'd tell you that she used you--err, that is to say, I wasn't aware that you're unaware of this and I totally should have just kept my pie-hole shut like Razi tells me to do almost every other hour, not that I'm complaining about Razi!!..." 

I frowned at her flustered face, slightly irritated by her nervous babbling. None of my employees are scared of me, so I'm genuinely upset that someone might actually get nervous around me, just because I'm their boss. 

"Anika. What do you think will happen to you if you accidentally tell me something about this company that I wasn't supposed to know?" 

"Worst case scenario: you'll fire me without a reference, and you'll make sure that no other designer wants to hire me." She squeaked, "Best case scenario: Razi will send me to Multan, to babysit the tailors. I really don't want either, because he's already banished me to Multan twice this month, and I hate it! I don't even know what I'm doing here with my life, because I'm not even good at this designing business. I'M A MAKEUP ARTIST FOR GOD'S SAKE! I have a degree from MUD!..." 

I helplessly patted her back while she got over her nervous hysteria. The lift doors swung open, and I hesitantly steered her forward. All the while thinking; 'I do not need this...'

"Anika. Honey. Look at me." I made her look down at me (even in flats, she towered over me, like almost everyone else in the adult world). "Nobody's firing you. Okay? and nobody's sending you to Multan. I just want you to know that there's nothing about this company that you shouldn't tell me. Got it? As long as my Mama leaves me in charge; I get to hear everything you want to tell me. In fact, I need to hear everything. Because I can't be everywhere at once. And if you feel like you're being steered in the wrong career direction, you should be more vocal about it. I mean...have you spoken to Razi about your area of expertise?" 

She shuddered, as if she'd just bitten on Disprin tablets. 

"I'm not sure if I have the balls to do that, yet. Just yesterday he fired my co-intern for wearing yellow yoga pants." 

I mentally rolled my eyes at this. "I hope to God she didn't take it seriously. Razi likes to channel my mother's dramatic decisions. Neither of them actually want to fire you. They're just checking if you're ballsy and shameless enough to come back again, like nothing happened. There's no ego at the entry-level jobs sweetheart. You take what they give you, with a pinch of salt. " 

She relaxed like stale bubbles, "Oh." 

"You want to tell me my mother's secrets now?" I mused. 

"Well...how about I just show you?" 

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

Half an hour later, I send Anika to check for non-existent messages from the receptionist, so I can cry in peace. 

"I know it's your choice, whatever you do after graduating, but I think you can do much better than...this." 

"Another honorable mention at the social activist kitty party? Hmm. My daughter sure is breaking milestones. While I just sold my salon for a quarter billion rupees. Silly me." 

"You weren't an easy child, Layla. You...have given me a lot of pain..." 

Whenever my mother cut me with her tongue, I hated her for being so distant. I hated her, and her business. I hated Hayat. And deep down, I hated myself, for hating her. Somewhere very profound inside the human psyche, is a place that is still almost physically connected to his/her mother. And so, when I lashed back, when I taunted her, when I rebelled and protested against her wishes, I was hurting myself. I could have won the Nobel Peace Prize for my efforts, but at the back of my mind, I'd still view this as 'not enough'. Just because my own mother dismissed my work. 

I always thought I was too plain-looking, too talent-less, and too unyielding to be her daughter, and that's why she always preferred Maria over me, in everything. 

I never imagined how much love she was hiding behind her cutting words, and distant attitude. 

A design room dedicated to H-kids was spread over the entire sixth floor. 

Like other design rooms, this one was littered with mannequins in various phases of undressed, fabric rolls and scraps were littered on the huge sewing tables in the center. Digital and traditional drawing boards were set up in circles with stools around them. A few designers were busy scribbling on them, while others were chatting up over coffee. Nobody except for Anika, paid much attention to me, and I was glad for that, because the "Inspiration boards" hanging every few feet on the walls of the room, nearly rendered me speechless. 

I was in all of them. 

Huge baby pictures of me were tacked onto the boards, surrounded by post-it notes in Mama's handwriting, with random facts about me. 

"She loves dancing in the rain." 

"She hates tomatoes in her salad." 

"Yellow looks gorgeous on her, even if she prefers black." 

"She used to be scared of showers, then her dad started taking fully clothed showers with her, to cure her of the fear." 

"She is so brave." 

"She likes to argue. A lot." 

"I always knew she would be my last baby. Had a hard time resisting her demands for a younger sister."

"Her father chose her name, because he had a crush on a 50's actress with the same name. I almost killed him, when he told me." 

"She had nobody to play with, so she befriended the maid's daughter. That girl died from TB, not too soon afterwards. She still thinks I just banished her on a whim, because of her status." 

"I never let anyone cut her hair, until she was about 7. I was too scared of any sharp objects near her. She was just so tiny! Like a wisp! I wanted to protect her from the world."

"In tenth grade, she got a B-minus in English Literature. Apparently, she couldn't read through her required reading book, 'Tess of the D'Urbervilles'. I could hear her crying over it in her room." 

"She always knew I was her tooth fairy." 

"She used to love brushing my hair." 

"When she was four, her father got her Barbie Dolls, and she cried herself hoarse. She wanted new gym equipment instead." 

"She has given me so many gray hairs, with her 'Mama, look what I can do!'-s. Nobody wants to see their three-year old somersault backwards from the top of a six-foot filing cabinet." 

"I have no idea why animals hate her. Maybe she loves them too much."

"She learned sign language, even before she learned to speak English. She's as good as her sister at it." 

"She wants to fix the world." 

I couldn't stop myself from reading each heartbreaking note. The lump in my throat grew larger when I saw the pictures she'd chosen. 

There was one of me as a new born, in Mama's arms. She was kissing my forehead. Even with the pregnancy bloating, she looked gorgeous. I looked like a tiny, hairy slug. 

There was one of me as a skinny little toddler, practicing hand-stands. Mama was hovering over me, arms outstretched, laughing, as she tried to prevent me from falling on my head. 

Then another one of Maria and I hugging each other in the rain. We were squealing with our eyes closed. My red rain-boots almost reached my waist. 

There was one of pre-second-wedding Dad sleeping open-mouthed, while Maria, Zaif and I drew with markers all over him. 

Many of them were from my gymnastic training days. Me grinning toothlessly in bright leotards, after winning regional mini-events. Me practicing my uneven bars, while my trainer Sir Sikander yelled at me. Six-year-old me frowning in concentration as I looked at the trainer demonstrating a complicated floor routine. 

My favorite was one of Mama and I at her work. I looked about three. Bangs falling into my eyes, long, my light-brown hair hiding Mama's arms, while she she held me up in her arms. She was busy over a designer meeting, unaware of the photographer. I was shyly staring right at the camera, hiding my face against Mama's neck. Zaif and Maria were sitting bored, on either side of her. I was wearing yellow.

Somehow, I can't recall how many times Mama had to bring me to work like this. How many times did she have to deal with my tantrums, my complaining, while simultaneously running a wildly successful fashion house? How many times did she have to cancel appointments for me? How many times did she have to listen to my father's taunts about her being career-obsessed? How many times did she have to pretend she didn't care, until she convinced herself?

I get exhausted just running Hiraeth. I can't imagine doing this with three kids, and a critical, non-supportive husband. 

Respect. White hot, and humbling runs through my body, almost bringing me to my knees in that busy design room. 

"I don't understand why she didn't tell you that you were the inspiration behind H-kids. She wanted to name it 'Layla', after you, but our marketing team thought we should keep it gender-neutral," Anika hesitantly explains. I just nod wordlessly. I have never been so utterly devoid of things to say. "She made duplicates of all your images, because she doesn't trusts anyone with the originals. Even the home-videos are duplicates. That's why they're so grainy." 

My wet eyes landed on the huge flat-screen playing old home-videos of me as a baby on mute. 

"This is how she usually works. Surrounded by her inspiration. Look. There's some of the older you..." Anika pointed at a few hanging frames at the end of the hall. I noted that these were all pictures taken after I was 8-9 years old--around the time when Musa happened. I looked almost scared in some of them. I had lost the gleeful spark that I could clearly see in all the earlier photos. I was thinner, slightly taller, but my shoulders were now hunched--as if I wanted to hide myself. Maybe that's why Mama had decided to banish these photos of older me, to the corner, choosing to surround the large room primarily with my unbroken years. 

The only few happy snaps of older me, were from my college days. Me in the Laila costume, laughing as Azaan teasingly threw rose petals at my face. Me getting squished in a group hug between Shay and Azaan. Me on my graduation day, wearing the navy blue robes and hat, staring seriously into the camera. Then me a few years ago, speaking in a mic, at a seminar for female reproductive health. Me in a dark suit, receiving the award for Best Humanitarian Ad Campaign At the Pakistan Advertising Awards. 

I noted that the spark in my eyes had briefly appeared in the photos during college. I was happy with him, then the spark had disappeared again, when he left me. 

Was it ever fair to him? When I confessed my feelings at a time, when he wasn't ready? When I made him unwittingly responsible for my own happiness?

I'll never know.

"Here, you want to see the pieces she drew up?" Anika gestured at the sketches lying around. "She takes bits and pieces of your personality, and puts it into the clothes. Neat huh? That's why she's amazing at what she does..." 

I just nodded, when I spotted a kid-sized mannequin doll wearing a bright yellow onesie, with rain boots. There was a sketch tacked to it, indicating its incomplete status. 

I paused to smoothen out a sketch sheet, bearing the drawing of a sporty T-Shirt saying "I don't believe in tooth fairies". 

"Want to hear Sanam explain it?" Anika pointed a remote at the flat-screen, and it shifted to an on-the-job video of my Mom. She was busy on her laptop, while she spoke to the camera." 

"H-kids is about imperfect kids. The ones who like to get messy. The ones who're not afraid of getting hurt, because they have this fearless streak of pure nerve coursing through them. The ones who never give up. The ones who keep on believing in goodness, because they can't not. And that's why, I have chosen my daughter as the inspiration for it, because her childhood was supposed to be beautifully imperfect like that." She pauses for a while, just staring blankly at her computer screen. "Everything about my other brands is about perfection. About class, and elegance, and luxury...Just this once, I want it to be more than that. I want to break my own rules. I want to make a kid happy by adding rainbow ruffles to orange skirts. It will look ghastly to mothers like me. But then, it's not about me. It's about my daughter. And other kids like her, who grow up too fast. Kids who're now changing the world that adults like me couldn't protect them from..."

I don't think I was capable of listening to more of her. So I excused myself, and ran for cover. 

Afterwards, I debated calling Mama up demanding an explanation for this whole...thing, but Maria had texted me a while ago, telling me that she was still sleeping off the drugs they were pumping her up with. 

Besides, if she tries to dismiss this whole project as a "Business Decision" and "Effective marketing strategy", in that cool, unaffected voice of hers, I will surely put my head through a wall or something. 

For as long as I can, I want to savor this side of her that she tries so much to hide under a veneer of emotionless calm. 

"Miss Hayat?" Anika's muffled voice sounded from outside of an empty conference room I had barred myself in. 

"Call me Layla." I instructed when she entered. 

"Err. Okay. Layla, there's someone on your Mother's private line who says she's from BCW. Do you want to take her call?" 

About time. I nodded grimly.

"Yes I'll take that call, Anika. Thank you." 

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

"YOU WANT TO DO WHAT?" Razi screeched at me. 

"You heard me." I replied calmly. 

"NO. I DON'T THINK I HEARD YOU CORRECTLY, BECAUSE I THINK YOU JUST SAID THAT YOU WANT TO GATECRASH THE BRIDAL COUTURE WEEK!" 

"Layla, there's someone waiting in the lobby for you." Anika timidly peeked into Mama's office. Razi threw a nearby throw-pillow at the door, encouraging the poor girl to run for her life. 

"You need to stop harassing her, Razi. I mean it." I glared at him while he nearly threw another pillow at my own face. He was so red all over. It was interesting, watching his bald head turn crimson with every angry breath. 

"YOU...YOU CAN'T CRIMINALIZE YOUR MOTHER'S NAME LIKE THIS! I WON'T LET YOU BRING ALL THAT POLITICAL FILTH IN OUR DOORS!" Veins on his head could be counted at this point, he was looking apoplectic. 

"News flash, Razi: This business was politicized the minute BCW associated the brand with our family. You. Cannot. Escape. It." I enunciated clearly, patronizing him, as if he were an infant. "Now, I know you've worked way to hard, and Mama has invested way too many resources into the BCW runway, for us to docilely accept this stupid ban, and stand aside. I know you'd cheerfully hand over your kidney, to be able to show-case our dresses in the event. Then trust me when I say that I have a plan that could make it happen." 

"PLAN? PLAN? WHAT FUCKING PLAN, YOU MORON? GATECRASHING A SECURE EVENT IS NOT A PLAN!--" 

"What the hell's going on here?" Azaan's pissed off voice distracted me. He was followed by an openly gaping Anika, and an equally baffled Pareeshae. 

Razi threw another throw pillow at the door....which was caught deftly by Azaan before it smacked Shay in the face. 

"WHAT THE HECK!? YOU HAIRLESS TOAD!" Shay screeched. 

"He is a soon-to-be-bruised hairless toad." Azaan gritted, moving purposely towards Razi, unbuttoning his shirt-sleeve buttons in the process.

"Azaan, don't. I mean it." I warned him. "This is Razi's lair, and we're technically the trespassers here. This is how he runs the fashion world. Don't take it personally....I certainly don't." 

"HE THREW A GODDAMNED THROW PILLOW AT MY FACE!" Shay yelled, marching up to my desk. "I WON'T BE QUIET ABOUT THIS..." 

I sighed. 

"Anika, could you arrange one of our gift cards for my friend? The unlimited ones." 

"I CAN BE BOUGHT OVER WITH EXPENSIVE CLOTHES AND JEWELRY." Shay announced needlessly, situating herself on a sofa set in the office lounge, her anger evaporated. 

"You will bankrupt the hayat name in a month. Mark my words." Razi warned me. 

"Ooh. Really? I was aiming for something more dramatic! like a week or so!" I quipped sarcastically. Azaan laughed at that, making me flush happily. 

"Over my dead body, are you ever gatecrashing at the BCW!!" Razi squawked. 

"Oh, that can be arranged." Azaan drawled threateningly, flexing his fist. 

"Hmmph. I would retort with an appropriately witty insult,  but I find your face extremely attractive." Razi sniffed snootily, "Have you ever considered modeling? I was looking for a fresh face for our Winter Collection. A not-too-pretty, Man's man. Your hair would have to be grown out though..." 

"Over my dead body, are you using him to sell products!" I snapped out before thinking. 

Azaan's grimace turned into a smirk. 

"That's right. Only Nightlife gets to use me for stuff." He grinned back. 

Shay snickered. 

Anika cough-squeaked. 

Razi actually fanned his face. 

I scowled. 

"Get out. All of you. I have a party pooping that needs planning..." 

"You're not pooping without me." Shay interjected. 

"Same to same." Azaan raised his hand. "We're all pooping together." 

"I'm disgusted, yet fascinated at the same time." Razi mused, still eyeing Azaan as if he were a candy bar. 

"I'm obligated by my job description, to help you out, in any way," Anika shrugged, "but I want to do this, even if Razi fires me again." 

"You're fucking fired, Sarah." Razi promptly gestured rudely with his hands.

"My name is Anika..." 

"Still fired."

"I'm still a part of this team." I was proud of the way Anika stood up to him now, secure in the knowledge of her employment. 

"Okay then. Welcome to the poop team, all of you." I replied softly, glad to have their support. I needed everyone I could possibly rally up. This was going to be my own little tribute to Mama."So before we begin to plan the actual details, here's what we know about the BCW security plan..." 

Author's Note: 

BELATED EID MUBARAK ALL YOU "MOZLEMS" READING. :* <3 (Joke. Btw. We're MUSLIMS!)

I hope you all gorged on food like starving prison escapees. ^_^ Eid isn't Eid, unless one gets diarrhea in the process. 

This chapter was so different from others! I still had fun writing it, even if there wasn't a lot of Azaan. 

The next chapter, is going to be about something I have been planning for months now! so I'm expecting a lot from my own self. I really hope I do justice to the plan I have in my head, guys. Y'all will love it, I'm sure. :* 

THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR THE AWESOMESAUCE COVERS! OMG!!

Mubashirah made these two amazing ones!

SO CUTE HUH??? XD <3 

and then, the adorable, Praggyan made this super fancy one:

*Cue burlesque music* <3 

Don't forget to vote, comment, and share this book if you liked it guys!  Every drop counts at the Wattys, I hear. :) Your support will be wildly appreciated. 

Love and Nutella Parathas (IF YOU HAVEN'T HAD THEM, YOU'RE MISSING OUT ON LIFE!)

-E.