by Minal Khan
~
“Ambreen, what a surprise! I can’t remember the last time I set eyes on you!” And with that, the stranger leaned territorially in the direction of my mother’s ear. The woman was tall and airy; something like what a model would look like two decades after her reign. Her bronze skin glowed against the glittery white of her sari. She delivered a hug to my mother and a kiss that drifted into the air. I waited patiently while the two exchanged pleasantries.
The lady then smiled in my direction. Her eyes shone like the sparkling diamonds on her neck. “And who do we have here?” My mother spared no time in introducing me. “This is my youngest, Ayla. You must have seen her before at Mini’s wedding.”
“Ah. So I did. Well, you look lovely.”
I smiled back, and thanked her.
It was when Mira Aunty (the kind stranger) released my mother that I had a moment to absorb my surroundings. There were easily five hundred people at this wedding. These people were gathered in small clusters, little rings of women and men chatting intimately, touching each other’s shoulders, reveling and talking about how “time had flown” and “wasn’t it lovely to see families come together for weddings?”
A deep red carpet encompassed the entire venue, rolled out in one big scarlet wave. The yard we were in stretched out for 1,500 square yards, and neighbored a large house, which belonged to the hosts of the wedding. A bright yellow tent hovered over us and bore sparkling string lights. Lamps with lit candles shone brilliantly from every corner. Round tables teeming with roses and dandelions surrounded the yard; expensive silver china was already set out. The saffron smell of biryani—a traditional rice dish with spices, vegetables, and turmeric—filtered the air.
The food had yet to be served however. Everyone was standing around the tables, mingling and talking. There were young people: twelve-year-old boys wearing suits, and teenage girls awkwardly bunching up their ghararas—long skirts combined with a blouses—wondering how to handle all that extra material. We passed a group of older men in suits laughing loudly and patting each other on the backs while they easily held glasses of scotch.
A waiter dressed up in a tight bowtie and a too-loose large shirt approached me with a tray. “Martini, madam?”
My mother’s eyes widened. “No thank you,” she clipped before I could speak. Her gaze followed the waiter till he disappeared.
“Wedding hosts nowadays are so open about serving alcohol, it’s disgraceful.”
Selling liquor was indeed illegal in Pakistan. Under “Shariah” Islamic law, alcohol was forbidden. But that is not to say there was not a bustling black market in the trade. Sure enough, that waiter standing at the back of the large group of young twenty-something men in suits—the one snatching discreet looks here and there, was arranging shot glasses on a low-rise table, pouring a tall, regal bottle of Grey Goose vodka (most likely purchased in Dubai, a two-hour plane flight away in the United Arab Emirates, which freely sold alcohol, usually at a stupendous price) with the skill and experience of a seasoned bartender, assembling the little shot glasses on a large tray at seamless, lightning speed.
Consuming alcohol was definitely not the norm, however—black market or no black market. Social stigma surrounded sipping wine, beer, or any kind of liquor. Only a small minority in elite circles openly consumed alcohol at weddings and large social gatherings, places where one can disappear in a large, boisterous crowd of laughter and go by relatively unnoticed. Even then, my family—particular my mother and father—were not drinkers, and did not indulge when they were carelessly handed drinks at weddings. Personally, I didn’t have a very big curiosity for alcohol. I did, however, enjoy observing people getting tipsy at these weddings. I liked seeing the way alcohol lowered social barriers. People talked easily, putting arms on each other’s shoulders and leaning in to share jokes, becoming more intimate, more personal in a way they never would without alcohol. My mother and father’s friends certainty lightened up a lot more when they had a drink in hand.
During research for a horticulture project, I came across a quote by Jeanne Olmo that felt so relevant when I came to weddings like these where alcohol flowed freely. It read, “At an award presentation for my father, Dr. H.P. Olmo, he commented that ‘Maybe if everyone in the world would have a glass of wine a day, there might just be world peace!’ As he was leaving the podium a man rushed up and said, ‘But Dr. Olmo they don’t drink wine in the Middle East!’ Dad replied, ‘My point exactly!’
I turned back to considering the wedding. Colors were carelessly strewn everywhere. Clusters of traditional yellow marigold flowers, scarlet rugs with silk takiyahs, or pillows, adorned the floor, alongside high round tables that held fine silver china, more flowers, and little pieces of mithai—sweet dessert for guests wrapped in fine ribbons and placed on every individual seat for each guest.
It was one big, glittering affair. Women’s twenty-karat diamonds twinkled coquettishly when they caught the light, their saris fluttered, their expressions were airy and delighted, engrossed in conversation. The elder men bantered playfully with their business associate friends. The young men hung about in groups, casting furtive glances at girls they considered attractive. Everything was perfect. And unmoving.
I found myself sitting alone on the flower-encumbered chairs for most of the night. My mother was darting from one group of friends to another and my father was nowhere to be found. With no cell phone to entertain myself with, I felt bored. Perhaps even more bored than the bride, I felt, who was sitting on her throne, eyes lowered.
I considered the bride, slowly, as if I would never see her again, when in fact my life and hers would soon become intertwined in a way that would be startling. I would soon learn things about her later married life that would cause people at this wedding to gasp and spit out sips of their margaritas if they caught word of them. But of course, I did not know this at the time, as I sat there, sipping my Pepsi and appraising her.
The bride had caramel-colored skin, startlingly unblemished, and high cheekbones. Her lips were painted a deep crimson, matching the color of her dupatta—the head covering that draped her high, coiffured hair. Her wedding dress consisted of a scarlet red blouse, matched with a long, undulating skirt of red silk, embroidered heavily with the finest gold stones. Even underneath those voluminous layers of fine stones and fabric, she looked petite, almost frail. The gold necklace that sat on her collarbones looked cumbersome, too heavy for such a small frame. Copper-colored henna laced the girl’s fingers, weaving patterns of flowers around the front and back of her palms all the way up to her forearms. Her expression was blank, neither happy, nor sad. She was talking to a well-wisher, her red lips busily miming words which I couldn’t hear.
The bride suddenly changed her gaze and, with kohl-rimmed eyes, looked directly at me. Her face was artistically perfect, but expressionless. I sank back in my chair, taken aback, and tried to avert her gaze. Seconds later I glanced back in her direction. She was in animated conversation with an elder woman.
The groom sat next to her on a raised stage covered in rose petals; his traditional coat-like sherwani was crisp, and a flesh-colored turban sat primly atop his head. But that was where the pleasantness ended. His eyebrows met at the middle in a way that made him appear like a puffed-up bull. I looked at the bride, then back at him, then back again. She was a tender dandelion, he was a steaming bouncer. I shuddered to think how he would impose himself on her that night, his heavy bulk forcing itself on her tender flesh. Instinctually, I felt that this girl hadn’t voluntarily landed into the arrangement.
My wandering mind was bursting with discomfort and pity. It was relief when the food was shortly served.
It was 1 a.m. by the time we finally left. My mom declared some of the guests were drunk as louts, and that we must leave before the drunker ones hurled profanities at us. The parents of the bride (the ones whom we were “related” to) were congratulated, and the hosts thanked. We finally made our way out of the gate. As soon as o
ur feet crossed the porch, we were back in a crude and gloomy, but familiar, world. The colors of the interior were erased by the gray of the night. The boisterous aunties and uncles were replaced by ragged and sleepy-looking drivers.
I checked on the two armed guards that had stood like rocks at the gate and smiled satisfactorily. They had not moved an inch.
2
My alarm shrieked at exactly six o’clock.
I jolted awake, and banged it off. I was fortunate that it had woken me up this time. My previous alarm tunes had all been lilting and sweet. I had thought that it would be nice to wake up to the soothing sounds of my favorite Buddha Bar song. Wouldn’t it be perfect, I had imagined, hearing the chirps of Indian summer at the crack of dawn? I suppose it would have if I had ever got around to waking up. The first few days the alarm had rung, I had not registered it. The soothing ocean sounds drifted away with the same ease at which they arrived; and they went by, unnoticed. Perhaps the sound of the waves had penetrated my half-conscious mind and beckoned me to sleep a little longer. Only after waking up late on two consecutive days did I realize the true treachery that Indian summer really possessed. I then changed my tune to a shrill, doomsday-trumpet holler. It was frightening enough to bring decaying fossils back to life. It also successfully managed to get me to school promptly at 7:30 a.m.
I stretched momentarily and blinked rapidly to adjust to the light. I ambled towards the bathroom and screwed open the tap. Cold water rushed out. I squeezed some liquid soap into my palm (mental note: I would need to get face wash soon) and rubbed it over my face, temporarily blinding myself.
Someone could creep up behind me and stab me in the back right now. Ok, in the next second. Or the next. Definitely after this very second. Someone is standing next to me, waiting to strike. I don’t know it because my eyes are squeezed shut. I opened my eyes suddenly and glanced in the mirror, waiting to see a pale girl with a bloody, scarred face grimace back at me. The room was silent. I sighed. I never quite got over my fear of the girl in the Exorcist. I had watched the movie three times, hoping that the more I set my eyes on the fiendish girl, the more I would come to see her as just an ordinary person with makeup. But it didn’t work. It’s not as if she plagued my world, haunting me every second that I waked. But there were sporadic moments, every now and then, when I imagined her face as I lay down to sleep, and clutched the blanket around me a little tighter.
I quickly brushed my teeth and hurried out of the bathroom.
After I changed into my school uniform, I sat down to complete my Economics homework. I usually found myself completing work at the eleventh hour. Only at the last minute would my dormant conscience reactivate and give me a migraine, reminding me to complete laid-off homework, and study for imminent tests.
The sounds of the early morning Fajr prayer filtered into my room. It was before the crack of dawn that the azaan—the call to prayer—sounded most ethereal. The muezzin’s voice acquired an intoxicated zeal that was unmatched at any other time of day. Ironically, it made me somewhat sad; I don’t know whether it was my guilty conscience again, reminding me how much I needed to start praying, or the melodramatic hue of the call for prayer itself, that played its effect on me.
I finished my work hurriedly and grabbed my schoolbag; a dusty old black sack, and left for school.
~
I wouldn’t say that my days spent at school were entirely mundane. True, the bell rang exactly at 7:30 every single morning, classes rolled before me on schedule, and every activity began and ceased at the whims of the bell. The system was rigid; timetables fixed. But the students made the school-going experience fluid. The school, without us, was just a gray block of rooms. We added zest to the inanimate halls and idle basketball courts, making it come to life the way Adam did when the Angel Gabriel breathed life into his dormant being.
On this particular day, however, things were a little more dramatic. I moved in a stupor from class to class, amazed at how little I knew about Napoleon’s conquests. This wasn’t just reflective pondering. I had a history test the next period. Funnily, I remembered the most interesting, yet academically useless trivia of Napoleon’s life. I knew he was shockingly short for a political leader of such great stature. He hated the press, and banned some ninety newspapers from operating at the time. He delivered a heart-wrenching speech to his military men, thanking them for serving him loyally, right before he was sent into exile.
I entered the class in that same lost daze and sat in the seat in the furthest corner. My friends had already seated themselves before me. Alia shot a glance at me before the teacher handed the test papers out. Alia had been my best friend for eight years. It wasn’t one of those kindergarten blood-sisters sort of burgeoning friendship that most people enjoyed boasting about. We didn’t become friends immediately, either; it was much to the contrary.
Alia and I started off on hostile grounds. I vaguely remember my teacher introducing Alia—the new kid in class—on the first day of school of grade three, when I was eight years old. “Everyone, this is Alia. She is a new student here” My teacher pushed Alia, a skinny girl with a large head forward. Alia had thin, knobby knees and almost toppled over from the push. “Please make friends with Alia!”
My eyes widened when I heard the name, “Alia.” That sounds so much like my name! I thought to myself. Ayla. Alia. This was terrible! There was no way this new girl with her big head was going to come to my class and just steal my name like that. Didn’t she know there was already an Ayla in this class? Years later, we would have fun fooling our teachers with our almost identical names. We would laugh when we switched test books and wrote the same names on them, puzzling everyone. But at that time, in third grade, this Alia—this new girl—was my worst enemy.
After being introduced, Alia had come up to me on that first day of class in third grade. “Is someone sitting in this desk?” She asked, pointing to the desk in front of me. Her eyes were large and round, deer eyes. I narrowed my own eyes at her and said nothing, staring straight ahead, not making eye contact. But it was hard. Alia’s head really was enormous, and she had a Beatles haircut. Her hair was boy-short and poker-straight at the time. She had a fringe that swept across much of her face. I was then, of course, devoid of any rudimentary fashion sense and had no clue she sported that “hairdo” straight out of her mother’s Vogue issue.
But my eight-year-old mind pounced on her boyishness and let me see nothing more. I constantly snickered to her face, without knowing any better. Only a few months down the line could I realize just how much my juvenile gestures must have hurt her. She never responded to my cruel remarks; Alia was much too mature for that. She ingested my smirks and sniggers like a bitter pill; patiently. I suppose she felt sorry for me. Which is just as well. I felt sorry for the old me, too.
Then one day we were both stuck in school till the evening. Both of our parents had “forgotten” to pick us up and at a certain point we were the only two students left at school. 1 p.m. came and went, and by 4 p.m., we began talking, more to stop ourselves going mad than out of polite curiosity.
“Why don’t our parents like us?” I asked Alia, swinging my legs vigorously on the school bench.
“I don’t know. They may have really just forgotten to get us.”
“Has your mom ever just forgotten you?”
“Yes, once in a crowded bazaar. I guess I just got lost.”
“Lost? That’s strange.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I would have spotted you anywhere with that hair.” It came out sarcastic, unkind.
“Thanks. Even my dad tells me I remind him of Paul McCartney. Somehow he thinks it’s a compliment.”
That made me laugh. Then the ice not only broke, but melted away and evaporated into nothingness. We talked for two hours straight. About our families. Our parents’ forgetfulness.
Eventually she asked me, “Have your parents ever grounded you?”
“No.” I said.
&nb
sp; “This feels like being grounded for eternity. Like this is worse than vengeance. Leaving someone in school till the evening. The school gatekeeper is looking at us like we’re orphans.” The burly security guard had come to check up on us twice. He phoned our parents for us. But nothing. Eventually, he bought us two ice cream cones to appease the abandoned children while they waited for absent parents.
At 8 p.m. I suggested, “Maybe they’ll let us sleep over in the classroom.”
“Nah, they can’t let little kids sleep in a classroom,” said Alia, “Eventually someone will call a cab.”
“My mom says I should never step into a strange cab,” I responded.
“Then you can stay here, while I hop into one and go home,” Alia said quickly.
The thought of being alone made me frightened. It was getting dark and chilly. I could feel goosebumps under my school uniform. I realized grimly I’d never worn my school uniform for such a long stretch in one day. Had my parents really abandoned me?
Alia’s father was the first to roll up. At 9 p.m. he swung by in a black car that looked polished like a dress shoe. He clasped Alia to his chest and sobbed. Actually sobbed. “Your mom told me she would get you from school. Four hours later I asked her and she said she thought I was picking you up. I’m so sorry! So, so sorry!”
Of course her father offered to give me a ride home. I accepted and we drove to my place, the polished-shoe car climbing through the narrow, tree-lit road that led to my house. I looked at Alia chatting freely with her dad about her day in the front seat. I couldn’t help it. I was slightly disappointed that Alia and I couldn’t spend more time together in that school. It was a lonely, scary four hours there. But I felt for the first time since I had come to that school that I had really opened up to someone. When I came back home and told my mom this, she smiled and hugged me, glad that I—the “loner” in the family—had finally made a friend.