Karachi, You're Killing Me!

by Saba Imtiaz

‘Wait, what? Are you still fixing for Jamie?’

  ‘Yep, he’s been in Karachi for the past two weeks, since fashion week. I’m so tired of this fixing crap, I swear I can’t wait for him to leave. Is everything okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah it is,’ I say dazedly. ‘Bye.’

  Jamie is in Karachi. He never left. Which means that he has ignored my texts. Why? Should I call him? No, that’ll make me seem like a jilted wife. I start dialing Saad’s number but stop midway. What can Saad do? He doesn’t even like Jamie. It’s not like he can fly in from Dubai and force Jamie to reply to my messages.

  I call Kamran back.

  ‘Hi, I just got in,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure if I can come in today, I’m exhausted. I can file from home though…’

  ‘That’s not why I was calling. I thought you were doing this story on the Gitmo detainee for some website abroad.’

  ‘Yeah, I did send it to them.’

  ‘Ayesha, it’s on the CNN website. Anyway, someone sent us an op-ed on this and I wanted to read the original so I looked it up. It sounds just like your story. Did you sell it to CNN?’

  ‘CNN? What?’ There’s a strange, hot panic setting into my stomach.

  ‘Yeah, Google it.’

  I cut the call and run for my laptop.

  I do a search for the detainee’s name. About five hundred news stories pop up, all with variations of the headline ‘Ex-Gitmo detainee speaks about torture’. One of them links back to CNN. I am going to call Jamie right now and ask him which chootiya did this story and how.

  The byline makes me stop halfway through dialing. The CNN story is bylined ‘James Maxwell, reporting from Karachi, Pakistan.’

  I start to read. Two minutes later I feel physically ill.

  The motherfucker stole my story. The interview isn’t as good as mine—some of the quotes were lost in translation—but it’s what the guy said. His entire life story—the one he told me, coughing and whispering, is here.

  I check Twitter. The first twenty tweets on my timeline are calling Jamie one of the best foreign correspondents to have worked in Pakistan. One NYT editor has tweeted that Jamie has a shot at a Pulitzer.

  I sit on the floor. This isn’t happening to me.

  Check my e-mail. Surely Jamie has an explanation for this. There’s just one e-mail, from the British editor. ‘Sorry Ayesha, looks like you’ve been scooped by CNN. We won’t be able to run this story after all. Quite unfortunate.’

  I reach for a cigarette. There are none left in the box. And then I start to cry.

  11 a.m.: My phone keeps ringing but I don’t want to answer. There are only a handful of people who knew about the story, and I can’t bear being pitied and the all- too-obvious attempts to make me feel better about my missed chance. Check my phone. Ten missed calls. Kamran. Kamran. Kamran. Oh shut the hell up. Kamran. Zara. Saad. Zara. Saad. A number I don’t recognize.

  What am I going to do? How am I going to explain this to Kamran? And why would Jamie do this to me? I need to know exactly how this happened. There is no way in hell he managed to steal my story. How did he even get in touch with the family?

  I can’t work up the strength to dial his number. I feel so…humiliated. And used. I try Saad, but he doesn’t answer and sends me a text instead: ‘In a meeting. Call you when I get out of here.’ I sigh and call Zara, the only person I can fathom talking to right now.

  I rant and rave, sobbing between gulps of Diet Coke. I can’t even afford to drown my sorrows in a grown-up drink.

  ‘I am such a cliché: white man comes to Pakistan, befriends local, steals her due right. It’s like the bloody East India Company all over again.’

  ‘Ayesha, it’ll be fine,’ Zara says. ‘Look, I know we say this all the time, but it is just a story, and there’ll be more. We’re in Pakistan, for the love of God, there’s always someone blowing themselves up. And look, he’s just another guy. It’s not as if you’ll never meet anyone again.’

  ‘Do you think I should call him?’ I ask, wiping my nose with my shirt. I’ve even run out of tissues. ‘NO,’ Zara yells. ‘But if you really want to find out, why don’t you ask the guy’s son how this happened?’

  That’s an idea. I hang up and start scrolling through my phone book when I spot Akbar’s number. If Akbar did the interview with Jamie, he would know how it was set up, and it’ll spare me the awkwardness of having to ask the detainee’s son the details.

  I clear my throat and call. ‘Akbar bhai, hiiii,’ I say, trying to sound relaxed, like nothing has happened. I don’t know if he’ll end up repeating my conversation to Jamie. ‘I just wanted to say congratulations on the story! How’d you pull it off?’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Akbar replies, sounding a bit surprised. I imagine no one has called to congratulate him, since the attention must be on Jamie. ‘It was Jamie’s idea. He has really good sources. He heard the guy was living in Karachi. So I tried a few people, but no one would confirm. Then I called a few intelligence wallahs and finally someone told me where he was living.’

  ‘Acha, how nice,’ I say.

  ‘Why are you asking?’ Akbar says. ‘Do you want to do the same story?’

  ‘Sorry Akbar bhai, I have to go, the office is calling me,’ I hurriedly say, and disconnect the call before he puts two and two together.

  So that’s how Jamie did it. How could I have been so stupid as to give Jamie a heads up on such a fantastic story? And how could I HAVE SLEPT WITH HIM?!?

  I finally answer one of Kamran’s calls. He doesn’t bother with saying hello. ‘What happened, Ayesha? I thought you were publishing this story, and then we’d carry it later. What is going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I tell Kamran. A fresh wave of tears is bubbling up inside me. ‘Do you mind if I take a couple of days off?’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I’m a bit unwell,’ I say. Actually, no, I’m not going to make up excuses anymore. ‘I’d like some time off to think.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kamran, I’ve never asked you for more than a day off at a time. Please.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ Kamran says. How has he caved in so quickly? ‘E-mail me a leave application.’

  I call Zara back to continue my rant but she cancels the call and then texts that she’s out on a work assignment. Of course, the entire world is out and about and doing productive things. I’m still sitting on the floor, unable to process what just happened. Why did Jamie even flirt with me in the first place, if he was planning to screw me over afterwards? Or could he not believe his luck that a naïve girl would drop her sari and a gem of a story at the same time?

  The British editor’s ‘quite unfortunate’ e-mail keeps circling in my head. No one will ever commission me to do a story again. The editor probably thinks I am an idiot. This was my one shot at getting ahead in life, of landing more commissions, of maybe even securing a fellowship or a job abroad. Instead, I am still here, stuck in Karachi. And I never want to date again. This is it. I will be single forever, the drunk old auntie who kids hate at parties because they keep making them refill their drinks and fetch ice. I’ll be that girl who everyone invites to dinners out of pity because I am unloved and broke.

  I try to seek refuge online. Bad idea. The bloody story is everywhere. It’s on Facebook—even my great-aunt in South Africa has just posted a link to it—my Twitter feed is a nauseating love fest for Jamie, and at least five friends have e-mailed me the story. I turn on the TV to find a news anchor discussing the article in excruciating detail.

  I cannot help but remember a story I read about a man who believed he was allergic to wireless devices and the Internet and decided to go live in a forest in the UK. I wonder if I could go join him in his tree, because there is no escape from Jamie and how betrayed I feel.

  10 p.m.: Doorbell. It’s Zara, clutching a brown paper bag.

  ‘I got paid and went straight to the wine shop,’ she says, as she gingerly steps around the ashtray and Diet Coke bottles strewn around the room,
and my bag of laundry from Larkana, which I haven’t even bothered to toss into the hamper yet. ‘Get some glasses, let’s open this up.’

  She unveils a bottle of Murree Brewery’s blue-tinted gin. ‘That stuff tastes like nail varnish,’ I point out. ‘Whatever, it’s booze,’ Zara says as she pours out two measures. ‘Now tell me why you’re so upset over a story.’

  ‘It’s not just a story,’ I say, and take a huge gulp of the gin. It burns my throat and whatever’s left of my stomach given my diet of chilli chips, Diet Coke, and whiskey. ‘I thought Jamie and I were in a relationship. I feel so betrayed.’

  ‘Ayesha, do you hear yourself? You sound like one of those women on a morning talk show, sobbing their hearts out because they gained twenty kilos and their husbands went and married their teenage neighbour. I have never seen you like this. You’re the one who actually has more common sense than everyone else. You’re usually my voice of reason. For the love of god, it’s just a guy who clearly is a grade-A chootiya. You’re better off not being with someone who doesn’t give a fuck about you or your career. Does he realize how he’s really screwed you over?’

  ‘How would I know?’ I say. ‘I haven’t called him. Should I call him?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ she growls, and grabs my laptop. Five minutes later, I’m staring at Jamie’s tweets—about a hundred of them thanking everyone individually for their praise. I scroll down. There’s even a mention of Akbar, and how he’s the best fixer Jamie has ever worked with, but nothing about me, the person who gave him the story that is going to turn his career around and put him in the running for a dozen awards.

  ‘See,’ Zara takes the laptop back from me and slams the lid down. ‘He is such a lying asshole.’

  ‘Now forget about this, and let me tell you what happened at today’s presser.’ Zara launches into a long story about a politician’s ex-wife who turned up at the press club to reveal a list of all of his secret bank accounts and how much money he’d siphoned away in twenty years. I can’t stop thinking about Jamie and the story and how it could have changed my career. The gin is making me feel queasy and Zara’s upbeat tone is giving me a headache. ‘Zara, would you mind terribly if I asked you to leave?’ I start. ‘I should probably get some sleep, I just got back from Larkana this morning and then this entire drama began.’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she says, looking a bit put out. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to mollify her. ‘It’s just that I’m exhausted and I shouldn’t have had the gin.’

  Zara’s gathering up her handbag when her phone rings. She looks puzzled by the phone display. ‘Oh, hi Saad,’ she says, and hands it to me. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  I take the phone from her and say hello. ‘I’ve been trying to call you but clearly you’ve turned your phone on silent. Can you talk now?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say resignedly. I don’t really feel like discussing Jamie with Saad. He will remind me that he had warned me against Jamie and thought he was a chootiya. But then again, Saad is my best friend. Surely he’ll understand how heartbroken I am. ‘Just call me back in five.’

  Zara takes the phone back from me. ‘You know, Saad really cares about you. He wrote me an e-mail this morning too.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, suddenly remembering that Saad thinks Zara is hot and wanted me to set them up. Clearly he’s decided to take a shot at it himself.

  ‘He wanted to know if you were okay, and actually asked me to come over and check on you. I know he’s your friend, but the guy’s such a sweetheart even though he acts like he’s completely together and with it. That’s the kind of guy you should be with.’

  ‘What?’ The thought of Saad and me together is… hmm. I inject the same tone of outrage in my voice that I normally do when someone hints at this. ‘No, not Saad, OF COURSE NOT!’

  ‘Calm down,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean the two of you, just someone like him. Or him, you know?’

  ‘NO!’ I say, and she holds her hands up. ‘Fine, fine, I’m leaving now anyway. We’ll talk tomorrow, just message me when you feel up to human company and I’ll be around.’

  I look for my phone. Where is it? Has it decided to desert me as well? Suddenly I see a flash of light under the cat. She is asleep on top of my phone. Whoever said cats had amazing reflexes and could detect earthquakes and what not needs to meet my cat, who can’t tell that there’s a phone ringing underneath her belly.

  Nudge the cat. She growls and moves about an inch away. I slide the phone out from under her. Thankfully Saad hasn’t given up dialling my number, so I don’t have to call him back and hit my phone limit in five minutes.

  ‘Hey,’ Saad says. His voice is so low and hushed that I’m concerned he’s sick. ‘Do you have the flu?’ What’s wrong with his voice? Why does he sound like this? This is the kind of voice I last remember Saad using when we were in college and he would call me up in the middle of the night, dialling from under the covers so his mother wouldn’t hear him talking on the phone when he was supposed to be studying. There’s a long pause.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘No, just a bit tired,’ Saad eventually says. ‘It’s been a long day, but Jesus, Ayesha. I got an e-mail from my friend about the story, asking if this was the same one that you wanted to pitch and he was really confused about what happened. I got called into a meeting and I only got to my laptop two hours later. Then I read Jamie’s story. What happened? Did you end up giving it to him to use?

  I repeat my tale of how I told Jamie about the story, how helpful and kind and encouraging he had been and then Akbar and the tweets and that no, he had not been in touch. ‘I knew the asshole wasn’t good news the minute I saw him at that party,’ Saad says. I can imagine him sitting in his apartment, staring out the window at the gorgeous Dubai skyline, his jaw set with anger. Saad rarely shouts. ‘I wish I had kicked him out of the party that night.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I say. ‘I should’ve been smarter.’

  ‘How are you?’ I love Saad for not asking me if I was ‘okay’.

  ‘I’ve been crying all day.’

  ‘I can imagine. Did Jamie call you to explain? Do you know what happened?’

  ‘No. And then what’s worse, the editor from the UK told me he couldn’t use the story anymore. I am such a failure, Saad. You went to all of this effort for me, introducing me to your friend, and now I’ve completely lost my chance. All because I thought this amazing guy was into me and there was nothing wrong with telling him about a story.’

  ‘You shouldn’t think this way,’ Saad says. ‘I mean, you told him because you thought he was your boyfriend, someone you could trust.’

  ‘I suppose you can’t trust anyone.’

  ‘No, just not assholes. Look, I wish I could be there but I can’t leave work just now. I’ll call you tomorrow, but listen, don’t sit there and feel miserable all day. I mean, sure, it’s you and you’ll do that for a couple of hours but just don’t cry all day. I don’t want to think of you being alone.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Do you realize you’ve made the “don’t cry all day” call to me about once every year since we’ve met? Don’t cry about your exam results, don’t cry about your job, don’t cry about some boy.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, and cancel the call. How is it that this conversation is making the sinking feeling in my stomach worse?

  Friday, April 16, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘MQM sends haleem and nihari to the prime minister’

  8 a.m.: Wake up from a horrible night of tossing and turning. Every time I fell asleep I’d be jolted awake by a booming voice in my head reminding me JAMIE STOLE YOUR STORY, YOUR LIFE IS OVER, AND YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE IN LOVE, HA HA.

  I can’t take it anymore. Decide to go lie down in the cat’s room. She smacks me for trying to put my feet up next to her.

  Check my e-mail. There’s nothing but a few memos from work, reminding people that they can’t use the stairs between 2 and 8 p.m. because th
ey’re being retiled again. The last time the stairs were redone Kamran insisted on Italian marble because he wanted to impress visitors, but then one of the office staffers slipped and dropped about twenty cups of hot tea.

  I have given up on ever checking Twitter or Facebook again. The story is still being posted incessantly.

  Dad walks in, looking slightly abashed. ‘Ayesha, are you home today? Can you go to the mall? I broke the French press.’

  I grudgingly change clothes and head out. The mall is so peaceful on a weekday. It’s almost wondrous. Everything looks new and gleaming, screaming out ‘try me’, ‘touch me’, ‘buy me’.

  It’s a wonderful thing to have your father’s debit card.

  Armed with bags, I settle down at the mall’s only open-air café to have a cigarette. Someone is playing the soundtrack of my favourite film, Jab We Met.

  Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump up. ‘What?’

  It’s Andrea, Ali’s boss. I met her three days ago but it already feels like a lifetime ago. ‘Oh hello, sorry about that, I’m just a bit jumpy these days.’

  ‘No problem,’ she says. ‘Would you like to join me for coffee?’

  ‘Of course,’ I drag all of my bags to her table. She looks bemused. ‘My father sent me out to buy a French press and I got a bit carried away.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says, and sips her coffee.

  We sit in silence for a bit. I’m not quite sure why we’re hanging out given she doesn’t seem to have anything to say to me. I pray to god she’s not using me as a character in a story about how Karachiites are obsessed with consumerism or some such. ‘So did you read this story James Maxwell did on CNN?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, stirring the coffee a bit manically. It’s sloshing out of the cup and onto the saucer now. I don’t quite trust myself to not start crying again.

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘It would have been great had it been his own story,’ I retort. Fuck. Why did I say that? She’s probably best friends with Jamie. She probably thinks I am a bitter Pakistani hating on foreigners.

  To my surprise, she starts laughing. ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ she says. ‘You know I worked with him once? Guy had a reputation for stealing stuff from others. My editor found out and fired him. He has a really bad reputation with fixers in Lebanon too.’