Karachi, You're Killing Me!

by Saba Imtiaz

  ‘This stuff happens?’ I am aware that my jaw is hanging open at his blasé comment. ‘What is that even supposed to mean?’ Farrah looks completely confused and I’m trying very, very hard to keep my voice low and not scream at the top of my lungs about how this assholic, lying creep broke my heart and my career in one shot. I’m staring at Jamie, wondering how I could have ever let this man touch me, when I hear a voice in the distance. ‘Hi Ayesha.’

  I can feel my heart sinking to my Bata flip flops. I slowly turn my head around to see Saad and Nazia standing by the door to the café. ‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Oh hi, Nazia.’ This is the most awkward moment of my life—how stupid am I to be sitting here with bloody Jamie!??! ‘I have to go,’ I tell Farrah and Jamie, and run out of the café, brushing past Saad in the process.

  An hour later, there’s a knock on the door. I open it resignedly, knowing its Saad, who is going to be very, very angry.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’ he says, as he slams the door behind him.

  ‘Oh, it’s nice to see you too,’ I say. ‘Thanks for asking, I’m perfectly fine.’

  ‘You were having coffee with that despicable human being. I really thought you were better than this. A bloody gora says hello and all is forgiven? Do you have absolutely no self-respect?’

  Saad is standing in my room, arms crossed, oozing self-righteousness. ‘Saad, it’s not what you think. I ran into him and Farrah, they just took over the booth and I was trying to leave.’

  ‘You looked pretty comfortable. I’m sure he told you that it was all just a big misunderstanding or whatever. Right?’

  ‘We didn’t even get to that,’ I say, wondering what the hell has gotten into Saad. ‘What is wrong with you? Why are you acting this way? Do you think I would ever forgive him?’

  Saad looks at me and then looks away. I get up and try to hug him, but he’s standing like a statue. ‘Saad, seriously. You’ve known me for so long. Why do you think I’m such a naïve idiot?’

  Saad moves my arms away from his waist, and stares at me for a long moment. ‘I don’t think that at all. In fact, I wish I didn’t think about you at all.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I say. There’s this sense of panic rising in me. My friendship with Saad is over. He’s going to tell me that we should ‘take a break’, not hang out so often, and the thought is breaking my heart. I need to do something, anything to save it. ‘What do you mean, Saad?!’ I shout.

  ‘Nothing,’ Saad says, and looks down at his feet. ‘I have to go. I’ll call you later.’

  I want to run after Saad but I feel like I’m rooted to the ground. I’ve lost him and not to a freakishly straight-haired ditz, but because I was stupid enough to try and hear out a guy who was actually just a typical dick. I’ve been angry and hurt for weeks now, and for what? After all, Jamie did exactly what any opportunistic douchebag would do: he found someone who’d be easily charmed (single, sad, me), praised her (wide-eyed me), and slept with her (sexless for months me) and then, when she handed him the biggest scoop of his career, he used it. In the process, I’ve basically destroyed my friendship with Saad. He never liked Jamie, he tried to warn me against him, and I still went ahead and screwed myself over royally in the process. And now… I can’t even process what this means. Am I going to spend the rest of my life talking about the good ol’ times I had with this ‘old friend’ who I don’t see anymore? Will he even invite me to his wedding? Or will I find out through Facebook and spend hours looking at him and some girl posing happily together, all our friends surrounding them, except me? Surely someone will whisper, ‘Ayesha isn’t here because she and Saad had a huuuuge fight months ago, don’t you know?’ The hurt tone in Saad’s voice when he said he wished he didn’t think about me at all is playing incessantly in my head, like a bad Bollywood song I can’t shake off. Why can’t Saad think about me? Surely what I did—sleeping with Jamie, trying to get him to talk about what happened—can’t be so unforgivable?

  Tuesday, May 11, 2012

  Headline of the day: ‘Taliban accuse Pakistani government of using sorcery and black magic’

  5 p.m.: Have escaped to the gym. I can’t be in my room alone anymore. I’ve spent the entire weekend working and rehashing the fight with Saad. I can still picture him screaming at me, telling me he can’t think about me anymore, that horrible moment when I turned around at the café and saw him standing there with Nazia, who he probably spent the weekend having sex with while I stayed under the comforter and watched episodes of Sex and the City.

  I am running manically on the treadmill when my phone rings. How is one supposed to answer the phone when out of breath? I haven’t been able to wean myself off answering calls on the first ring, a habit ingrained by years of being in a newsroom where not answering your phone means missing out on scoops and assignments and led Kamran to tell the finance department to stop paying employees’ phone bills as revenge for not answering his calls. Must ignore, must ignore… Maybe it’s Saad? Push ‘stop’ on the treadmill and grab my phone. ‘Hello?’ I say, trying to calm myself down.

  ‘Hi, it’s Andrea.’

  ‘Oh hello. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Is this a bad time? You sound busy.’

  ‘No, no, absolutely not, I say, and sit down on the treadmill. My trainer walks by and is about to say something when I point to my phone. ‘Very important,’ I mouth and she shakes her head in disappointment.

  ‘Well, I wanted to tell you that I have some good news for you. Jamie won’t be stealing anyone’s stories any time soon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think there’s a bad connection,’ Andrea says. ‘Let me call you back.’

  ‘No no. I can hear you FINE! What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘All I can say is, have a look at MediaMatters in about ten minutes.’

  MediaMatters is an American website that covers media news, reports on gossip in the newsroom, and on new hires and layoffs. I remember using it to find out where Jamie had reported from. I grab my stuff from the locker and head outside and light up a cigarette. There’s nothing up on MediaMatters yet so I check Jamie’s Twitter account. He’s posted a selfie with Farrah. Ugh. I hope Farrah maces him with a can of hairspray or something.

  Refresh the page again.

  Holy cow.

  ‘A CNN spokesperson announced today that James Maxwell—who reported for the news network from Beirut, Baghdad and most recently, from Islamabad—is no longer associated with CNN. While the spokesperson declined to comment, a source in CNN’s Dubai bureau told MediaMatters that Maxwell had been informed over the weekend about an internal investigation on a story that aired on CNN last week. Maxwell has reportedly plagiarized content from NBC for the story, including paying off a stringer attached to the story to give him the same footage used by NBC.

  The source also said that questions were raised regarding Maxwell’s last story, an exclusive interview of a recently released detainee from Guantanamo Bay that had generated early Pulitzer buzz. MediaMatters learnt that the profile had been pitched by a Pakistani reporter to a UK-based news website days before Maxwell’s story went on-air.’

  Oh my god in heaven above.

  I check Twitter. Every single foreign correspondent on my timeline seems to be in a state of shock at what’s happened. One guy has tweeted: ‘Disgusting if true. James’s career seems effectively dead. Quite sad.’

  Andrea is a bloody genius. In this moment, I could erect a shrine to her and offer a pint of my blood to her every single day to express my gratitude. She’s managed to get Jamie fired AND has exacted revenge on my behalf by questioning his source for the story. I try to call her but she cancels. ‘I’m in a meeting with Ali, but you saw the link?’

  ‘YESSSS!’ I reply back. ‘Thank you, this is absolutely amazing.’

  She sends a wink emoticon back. The cigarette I’m smoking seems more potent, the knot of tension in my stomach that’s been omnipresent since the day CNN scooped me is gone, an
d even my achy muscles feel more relaxed. There’s a jolt of energy coursing through me. I need to tell Saad. I need to fix things with Saad. I need to do something to save what we have.

  I run out of the gates and jump into the first empty rickshaw I see. Where will Saad be? Its 5.45 p.m., so he’s probably leaving work. I should go to his house and wait for him.

  Saad’s mother looks fairly confused to see me at the door in sweaty track pants and an old shirt with an ‘I hate running’ slogan. ‘What’s wrong, beta?’ she says, waving me in. ‘Are you doing okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes, aunty. Is Saad back from work yet?’

  She looks like I’ve asked her if Saad has committed a dozen murders. ‘Oh beta,’ she says, sitting down on her armchair. ‘I knew you and Saad had had a fight, he’s been so upset all weekend, but I didn’t realize he left without telling you.’

  ‘Left?! Where is he?’

  ‘Beta the driver left to pick him up from work—he’s going to the airport. He’s set up a meeting with his boss in Dubai to see if he can move back.’

  ‘What?!’ I scream. ‘When did this happen? Oh my god, aunty, I need to see him now.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I think the driver should have picked him up already, and the idiot left his phone at home so I can’t even call to see where he is. And Saad’s left his Pakistani SIM here too, he said he didn’t need it there.’

  I don’t know what to do. It’s rush hour, so there’s a good chance Saad isn’t at the airport yet. Should I go to his office? Should I make the trek to the airport? I’m standing outside Saad’s house, which isn’t anywhere close to a main road from where I can hail a rickshaw or cab. A cabbie drives by, ignoring me waving frantically. I start walking when he reverses. ‘Where to?’

  ‘The airport,’ I say. ‘I’ll pay you two hundred rupees more if you can get me there in twenty minutes.’

  He looks at me and then revs up the car. We’re speeding through a maze of small houses on what used to be railway tracks, land that people have been squatting on for decades now. The cab splashes through a stream of muddy water and drives through a patch of bushes. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ I ask. ‘I swear to God, stop worrying. This is the route I use when there is violence in the city. Best way to get there.’

  I look at my phone. Fifteen minutes gone. If Saad left ten minutes before I did… God, why did we have to have that fight? I don’t know why I want to see Saad so desperately, it just feels like I am going to lose everything if I don’t. ‘Hurry up, please,’ I beg the driver, who has slowed down to light a cigarette. ‘Acha acha, don’t worry, we’ll get you on that flight.’ I want to correct him but there’s a better chance he’ll continue speeding if he thinks I need to catch a plane. The cab suddenly smells rather odd. The driver is smoking a fucking joint.

  The turn-off for the airport suddenly emerges out of nowhere. ‘We’re here!’ I exclaim. ‘Of course,’ the cabbie says proudly. ‘I told you na, I’ve done this before.’

  I get off at the international departures gate and look around frantically for Saad. He isn’t here. The signboard says the flight for Dubai hasn’t even opened for check-in yet. I race from one end of the hall to the other. No sign of Saad. A guy in his fifties stops me. ‘Beta, whoever you’re looking for, I’m sure they’re looking for you too. Stop running around.’

  I’m just about to tell the guy to mind his own bloody business when I hear a voice behind me. ‘Yeah, Ayesha, you really shouldn’t run around.’

  It’s Saad, clutching a cup of takeaway coffee from McDonald’s. I throw my arms around him.

  ‘How did you even get here?!’ he says, as he sets his coffee down on the floor. ‘I literally just got to the airport. How’d you know I was here?’

  ‘Your mother. You idiot. Were you really leaving?’

  Saad doesn’t reply. Shit. I should have phrased this better. ‘I’m sorry…’ I start.

  ‘No, I am,’ he says, running his hand through his hair. ‘I’ve been a bloody idiot and I was trying to escape having to deal with this.’

  ‘Deal with what, Saad? It’s us. We got over the fact that you had to give me your sweater when I got my period at school. Seriously…’

  ‘I can’t really think straight,’ he says, and sighs. ‘I think I may be in love with you.’

  I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a pit and if I take one wrong step I’m going to fall in. Saad starts talking hurriedly. ‘Clearly you don’t feel the same way, and that’s okay, we’ll still be friends. I just need to get you out of my head, which is kind of impossible when you’ve been in my head since we were fourteen…’

  I take a step and wrap my arms around Saad. I can feel a jolt of electricity go through me. He leans down, brushes my hair away, and is about to kiss me when I hear someone clear his throat right behind us.

  ‘Is this man bothering you?’, asks the guy, shooting daggers at Saad.

  I’m shocked out of the haze and suddenly very, very aware of where I am. ‘Saad, bloody hell, we’re at the airport!’ I say and wrest his arm away.

  ‘Oh, seriously!?’ Saad says, exasperated.

  ‘Is he bothering you?’ asks the concerned bystander again, while we’re frozen in motion.

  ‘YES!’ Saad and I shout in unison.

  ‘I hope you bother me forever,’ Saad says, smirking. And for the first time in years, I can feel pure, unadulterated happiness.

  ‘Uff ho, jumma chummaaa dee dayyyyyyyyyy,’ sings a boy as he passes by.

  Saad and I burst out laughing and he holds my hand. ‘Let’s go home.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I’d like to thank Faiza S. Khan; she didn’t just commission and edit this book, she quite literally made it happen. Without her, I’d still be on my couch staring at the first three hundred words. Faiza and Random House took a chance on a snarky, cynical journalist who’d never written fiction before—I am forever indebted to them.

  Mohammed Hanif was incredibly encouraging and gave great advice and suggestions on the manuscript.

  Thank you to my family: my father Imtiaz Ali and sister Huma, and my cat, who stayed up most nights while I hunched over the laptop and took naps on drafts.

  Alex Strick van Linschoten, Alexander Lobov, Amna Iqbal, Nefer Sehgal and Misha Rezvi attempted to keep me sane, though I doubt their efforts worked.

  And lastly, thank you to the Karachiites who inspired the characters and are presumably writing me up in their burn books.

  A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

  Photograph © Nefer Sehgal

  Saba Imtiaz is a journalist based in Karachi. Her work has appeared in the Guardian and the Christian Science Monitor. This is her first novel.