by Saba Imtiaz
‘Hi, girls,’ pipes up a voice from the next table.
I jump and nearly upend my plate. It’s Sandra, the spokesperson for the US embassy in Islamabad. Zara’s cigarette is dangling from her fingers. I have no idea how much of our conversation Sandra has overheard.
‘Um, hi,’ Zara eventually finds her voice. ‘We’re just enjoying our day off.’
Sandra looks at our table, which is a veritable journalists’ table of shame: Three cigarette packets, four cans of beer and more food than at a family brunch. Our quick lunch has run until 4 p.m. and Zara looks like she’s in no mood to leave. The maître’d has already asked us once if we’re ready for the bill.
‘Oh my god,’ Zara whispers. ‘I think we may have single-handedly achieved at least one thing. We’re never going to be invited to those “female journalist roundtables” again. I think I nearly passed out at the last one when Sandra said she wanted us to share our hopes and dreams.’
‘I don’t have hope,’ I say, draining the can. ‘All I have is gossip. Thank god.’
‘Speaking of gossip,’ Zara says. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me?’
‘Not really,’ I say, racking my brains for any stories I may have heard about someone sneaking off for a job interview or being spotted at an obscure café to avoid having their date live-tweeted.
‘I see. So can you explain why Omar and Aliya saw you looking rather cozy at Casbah with some gora?’
I flush guiltily. I did feel bad about not telling Zara but I’m trying out a new principle whereby I won’t discuss any potential men until about eight dates in. After the number of non-starters Zara and I have analysed to pieces I actually thought she would appreciate it.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not mad. When they first told me I thought you were interviewing for the NBC job but then I knew you would’ve told me about that. So, explain.’
I give her the short version of the story, how we met, and the great kiss at Saad’s party.
‘Oooh! So? Do we like him? Like like him?’
‘We do,’ I say, surprising myself at how I don’t even have to think about it. ‘But there’s little I can do about it while I’m stuck in this good for nothing city.’
‘What does Saad think?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, keeping my tone neutral.
Things with Saad have been a little odd since he went back to Dubai. We still call each other and chat online, usually for mini-vents, but he hasn’t asked me about Jamie and instead of asking him what his problem is, I’ve also not brought it up. I’ll speak to him properly whenever we meet.
The maître’d looks relieved as Zara finally signals for the cheque. ‘Look, date a gora all you want, but please don’t become a cliché. If I see your photos in Sunday Magazine, attending one of those god-awful Islamabad parties where all the foreign correspondents and embassy staff earnestly analyse the country based on what they’ve read on Twitter—you know, those “Pakistanis take to social media to rail against corruption” stories—I will actually kill you.’
On the way home, I think about what Zara has said. Am I a cliché for liking a foreign reporter? I know that every foreign reporter currently stationed in Islamabad has more notches on their bedpost than even the most legendary partiers in Karachi. But I haven’t slept with Jamie yet. ‘But you want to,’ goes the little voice in my head. I decide to push Zara’s objections out of my head. I am single, and even if this whole thing with Jamie ends up with me doing the walk of shame home and never hearing from him again, it’ll be worth it to feel like someone finds me desirable. I have a drawer full of lacy lingerie that mocks me every morning. I am reminded of a line in 10 Things I Hate About You, one of my all-time favourite films, which still makes me want to weep over the dearly departed Heath Ledger. ‘You don’t buy black underwear unless you want someone to see it.’
The roads seem ridiculously empty. I am worried I have missed out on some great news story breaking somewhere. Then I look at the time. Its 6.15 p.m. The latest episode of Humsafar is playing on TV screens across the country as we speak.
Everyone is obsessed with Humsafar. I hadn’t even heard of it till Kamran sent me a link to a gossip website and asked me to ‘check the story out’.
Apparently a teenage girl was in the hospital for having tried to commit suicide after being inspired by an episode of the show where the femme fatale, trying to steal the lead character away from his goody-two-shoes wife, slashes her wrists to get his attention. I made three calls to hospitals and was rudely reminded of ‘doctor-patient confidentiality’ and accused of ‘tabloid behaviour’ by ER personnel before they slammed the phone down.
I started asking around. Why would a girl want to commit suicide based on a TV show? It turns out everyone is hooked to it, and as is the case with Pakistanis, they’re fanatical in their devotion: Zara, her family, Saad’s mother and khala, my friends from college, my grandmother, and the owners of the convenience store around the corner, who refuse to serve anyone until 8 p.m., when the show ends. ‘It’s a fantastic show, Ayesha,’ Zara’s mother told me over dinner one night. Dinner on Humsafar nights was served in front of the TV and Zara’s parents would only allow us to talk during the ad breaks. ‘You know, people don’t realize this but it really is a great retelling of what our society is like.’
I resisted the urge to ask her if she identified with the goody-two-shoes wife with the demure ‘jees’ and ‘aaps’, or the character of the mother-in-law, who hates the wife and wants her son to marry the femme fatale instead. Zara’s brother Imad winked at me. ‘So Mummy, does this mean you’re going to be like the saas on the show?’ His mother opened her mouth to respond but the theme music started playing again.
Perhaps Zara’s mother has it right. Surely there is some great aspiration value to the show. Is it that deep down we all desire to be part of a love triangle, replete with a villainous saas? Or does everyone want to be a demure young wife? My tailor has informed me that five of his clients have asked for copies of the flowing white kurta the wife wore in the third episode, and brought in screenshots taken off YouTube of the outfit. There’s a wild rumour going around that the local multiplex is going to screen the final episode. Zara’s mother has been begging us to use our connections to try and get a ticket for her.
I make it home in time for the first commercial break. Far too many ads seem to feature reporters, usually ones from TV shows, judging contests over which detergent works best. I am about to text Zara to ask why we’re being sold detergent by journalists, when Kamran calls.
‘Ayesha, when do you get back to work?’
‘Kamran, you gave me the day off,’ I say hesitantly. I’m wondering if this call means that my day off is effectively over. ‘I’ll be in at work in the morning.’
‘Oh. Ok. Ok. I forgot. Listen, you need to cover Karachi fashion week tomorrow. Everyone from the style desk is a badly dressed imbecile. One of them doesn’t know how to spell Hermès. I don’t want a 3,000-word fashion review, nobody reads that. Tell me who is wearing what, what the next big trend is going to be, and all the little bitchy things people said.’ I assume this little exposition is the influence of his socialite wife or that he’s been watching The Devil Wears Prada.
‘Sure,’ I hear myself say. I will probably regret agreeing to this later but I’m actually glad for a change of pace. I’m exhausted from compiling election databases, and it would be nice to get to talk to people for whom political activism means changing their Facebook status.
But Kamran’s comment about ‘badly dressed imbeciles’ reminds me that I probably need to get out of faded khaadi kurtas and into something that will not land me on someone’s worst-dressed list. I decide to pull out every single black top I own. Only five are in any condition to be worn. The rest are fraying and/or have cigarette burns. How have I spent the past three years? I seem to have no savings. Where has all my money gone, if not on clothes and vacations? An empty can of Murree beer rolls out of the cupboard. It is a sign f
rom god, reminding me that a quarter of my salary goes to financing the legal and illegal alcohol trade.
CHAPTER 6
Sunday, April 3, 2012
Headline of the day: ‘Pakistan’s Fashion Week Bares Country’s Frothy Side’
6 p.m.: If I hear the word darling one more time I’m going to throw up on the red carpet. We’re in the lobby of a posh five-star hotel where fashion week is held every year but there’s a press embargo in place on mentioning the location because the organizers fear it’ll be bombed to kingdom come. While I understand the need for security, the venue is one of the city’s worst-kept secrets. I’ve had ten staffers at work ask me for passes to fashion week. I got an e-mail in the morning from a PR firm with a list of new cell phone numbers for all their staffers, since their regular phones wouldn’t stop ringing with calls from politicians, socialites, and every business executive in the city, all demanding invites. In any case, anyone could figure out where fashion week is being held, given that the flyover leading to the hotel is completely gridlocked with cars bearing designers and socialites who seem to have coordinated their ‘fashionably late’ entrance.
There are a couple of burly Russian businessmen in the hotel lobby who look terribly amused at the men and women flitting in. One guy has a pair of antlers on his head. Another is wearing shorts so tight and miniscule that I’m hoping I won’t be seated across from him. One woman has a fez on, another has managed to coordinate her orange Birkin with her lipstick and manicure and pedicure.
I’ve spotted a right-wing columnist, the interior minister, five talk show hosts, and a European woman whom everyone is fawning over. The socialites are incredibly excited, gesturing to a harassed photographer to take yet another group photo. A photographer once told me that he received late night calls from fashion week attendees, all imploring him to airbrush out their wrinkles.
I spot Farah, a model who I interviewed a couple of months ago for the newspaper’s weekly magazine, and who has recently taken to spelling her name Farrah. Her face is so thin it actually hurts to air kiss. I compliment her on her dress: a red, backless, full-skirted outfit that looks like it was sewn onto her. ‘The choreographer has the gall to tell me not to be “half naked”—so I have a little scarf to go with the dress,’ she says, and lights up a cigarette. The ash falls on the carpet but she doesn’t seem bothered that a) this is a hotel, where one isn’t allowed to smoke indoors b) there are smoke detectors, and c) she just did an anti-smoking PSA.
There’s a loud BOOM.
Everyone ducks.
Of all the places in the world, I really don’t want to be held under siege by militants at fashion week. ‘It’s a light, guys, a light,’ shouts an event manager. Everyone turns around to see a blushing assistant standing next to a stepladder.
‘Thank goodness,’ sighs the photographer. ‘We’ve been saved.’
A designer shrieks, ‘I’ve lost my emerald earring, help!’ Her assistant and PR rep get down on their knees and scrabble about for it while trying not to be trampled by the mostly-fake Louboutin wearing crowd. ‘HURRY,’ she stage whispers. ‘I borrowed them from Sam and she’s staring at ME.’
The photographer looks rather amused. ‘Ayesha, we could have just gone to Abdullah Shah Ghazi’s mazaar instead if you wanted malangs.’ I realize every single woman here seems to have gotten the memo that faqir chic—aka dressing like a faqir at a shrine, except with patches on outfits placed largely for effect rather than necessity—is the next big trend. I say a silent prayer of thanks for the end of the kaftan trend, which had everyone from 10-year-olds to grandmothers wrapped in about ten metres of fabric, making them all look like they were about to deliver triplets.
One designer is wearing a long green cape and an armful of chunky silver bangles. ‘My accessories collection,’ she says, jangling the bangles on her wrist. ‘They’re really affordable too! Only four thousand rupees for a silver bangle!’ I wish she would take her arm out of my face. The bangles look exactly like the stuff hawkers outside shrines try to palm off on you—for fifty bucks.
‘You know I’m very spiritual. I went to Lal Shahbaz’s urs this year…’
‘Really?’ I remark. ‘Wasn’t it remarkably hot?’
‘Well, yes, but we stayed at this gorgeous guesthouse and had some of the malangs come visit us! I couldn’t go inside the shrine, I’m claustrophobic. Anyway, I should never have posted photos on Facebook because now I hear some Lahore designer aunty has stolen my ideas! Thankfully I show before her and so you MUST write about how her collection is just a rip-off of mine.’
After about two hours of posing and hearing every designer describe their line using the beloved mantra of Pakistani designers—‘a fusion of eastern sensibilities with western cuts’—and hearing someone referring to trousers as ‘lowers’, we’re shepherded into the hall for the shows. The seating is in a bit of a mess. None of the socialites want to put their Birkins on the floor and have taken up extra seats for them. In my row, one usher whispers to another that there’s been a disaster backstage: ‘One designer forgot to order shoes. Forgot! How can you forget shoes? None of the models want to walk out barefoot, so someone’s gone off to Samia and Azmay Shahzada’s warehouse to get every last pair of high heels.’
The lights dim and thumping Arabic music begins to play. A model walks out wearing a cape that looks like it belongs in the Islamic art section of a museum, followed by—‘holy mother of…’ whispers a journalist sitting next to me—a man dressed as a dervish, who begins whirling around. On a ramp that is possibly just about a foot wide. The model has stopped dead in her tracks because she can’t figure out how to get around the whirling man. After about three minutes, he stops and walks back. The sole European woman in the audience gets up and starts clapping enthusiastically. We’re treated to what I assume is the onset of the invasion of faqir chic: about ten minutes of velvet capes, tricolored turbans, and the obligatory red bridal outfit, because no Pakistani bride wants to look like a mendicant at her wedding, no matter how fashionable it may be.
The next show is described as a ‘garden party’. The first batch of models walk out twirling umbrellas. The DJ is playing an old ABBA song and everyone seems to be getting into it.
And then the last model walks out with—a kitten, a real, live kitten—who understandably looks terrified. As soon as the cameras start clicking, the cat leaps out of the model’s arms and climbs up on to her shoulders. The model grimaces, a look I’m all too familiar with—the cat has sunk her claws into her shoulder. To her credit, the model manages to gingerly walk down the runway, turn as well as one can when there’s a cat clinging onto one’s shoulders for dear life, and walk back to the staging area, where I’m sure she will require several Band-Aids.
I log on to Twitter to find that someone has already posted a photo of the model and the cat and people are tagging PETA in their tweets. Clearly they’ve never stepped foot in a designer’s workshop, where underpaid tailors put in fourteen-hour shifts to make copies of Gucci outfits.
Text from Zara: ‘I HATE YOU FOR BEING THERE.’
Text from Zara: ‘Ammi wants to know if the Humsafar girl is there, and if she is, can you ask her where her black kurta is from?’
Text from Riffat aunty, Saad’s mother: ‘Beta, what is this nonsense on TV?’
Text from Kamran: ‘I just saw a tweet about a cat at fashion week! You’re on it, right?’
Text from Jamie: ‘Meow. Did you get an exclusive with the cat?’
I actually am a bit curious about whom the cat belongs to. There’s a ten-minute interval so I sneak backstage, where as I expected the model is having her shoulder cleaned with antiseptic. I corner an usher. ‘Where’s the cat?’
She points to a young teenage girl holding a cage, inside which sits the cat, cowering. ‘I’m sorry, is she yours?’ I ask. The girl looks tearful. ‘This was all mummy’s idea,’ she wails. ‘I told her Pinkie wasn’t a prop.’
Her mother sweeps in. ‘Shut up, Sai
ra! The driver is outside. Go home.’
‘As you can see,’ the mother says, turning to me, ‘The cat is absolutely fine. The model was clearly unused to pets.’
Pinkie is now meowing pitifully from its cage.
Saira shuffles off, and I look around backstage. Farrah is wiping off her makeup and beckons me over. ‘Jaani, here’s a tip. Please keep an eye out for the woman who opens the next show.’
I ask her why, and she winks. I have no idea what I’m supposed to infer. Farrah is a little kooky. She quite famously once lit up a joint while walking down the runway and said it was part of the designer’s vision.
I hurry back to my seat, which now has a gift bag placed on it. This year’s fashion week sponsors, a pharmaceutical company, have decided to fill the bags with anti-aging cream (thoughtful) and condoms (more thoughtful, if there was anyone worth sleeping with on the four-hundred plus guest list).
The lights dim again. The journalist sitting opposite me is swigging from a hip flask.
The emcee announces that the next collection is inspired by ‘working women’. I look closely at the first model and nearly fall off my seat. It’s Kamran’s wife. This explains why he sent me to cover the event. She’s in a filmy jumpsuit and teetering on her heels. She blows a kiss at the audience and a woman behind me sniggers, ‘Sana’s drunk.’ I realize that this isn’t just a barb. Kamran’s wife is actually drunk. She can’t seem to walk in a straight line. She reaches the head of the ramp and does some sort of Marilyn Monroewind-blowing-up-the-sundress pose that just looks awkward in a jumpsuit. She fluffs her hair and sashays back. Farrah walks out next, looks at me and smiles. I’m digging out my cell phone to text Zara when Sana makes another appearance, this time in an outfit that looks more like a négligée; perhaps I misunderstood what the designer meant by ‘working woman’. I wonder how Kamran would react if the newspaper’s female staff showed up to work the next day dressed like this.
Sana is still weaving around on the ramp. This is like a car crash that I can’t tear my eyes away from. ‘OHMYGOD, SHE’S GOING TO FALL,’ the usher shrieks. Sana is dangerously close to the edge. No one from the audience makes a move to help her. Farrah swoops in, grabs her by the arm and half-drags her inside.