Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh.

'She doesn't really look up much. You know how it is, eyes half closed, just sort of nods a lot and her facial expression doesn't say ever say much. Like she's built a wall in front of herself. What's the word for it? Facade?'

It's all a charade.

Day in. Day out. Along with the other masquerades that time resumes. Eliot always sticks for some reason and I have a terrible memory so that's saying something. But it's all a charade and that's all it's ever been. How was your day? May I take your coat? Are you hungry? Do I even care? No of course not. But appearances must be kept up. Must. We mustn't break down those walls. Age equals respect, sex equals discrimination and money equals power and when all three things work against you, you must work with them. Put on a face for the evenings when he comes home. Over the years I have perfected this face, this look of passive adoration. I wear it close like a second skin and by God, I wear it well.

And so the bits and pieces of my life I allow to be seen never make a whole image let alone a thousand sordid ones and once I need something solid, something real I pause to think about how I would go about it. Because for the longest time it hasnt been about demanding anything, just keeping up the charade, keeping up the smiles and pettings and compliments so that when I want something real he would consider. And now I do  how to go about it is beyond me. It would be beyond anyone. We're talking an eighteen year old relationship here. But really eighteen years of what?

'Hello Daddy, here's your tea' 'What've you got there Princess? A brochure?' (Laughter, never derisive always cute) 'Oh no Daddy, it's the prospectus from the university I got into. Do you remember?' (silence) 'I thought...we could look at it together, it has course details and lots of information...' 'I see' (silence) 'I'll just put your tea down' 'Not over there, lovely, here on the bedside where it'll stay warm' (sets tea down, holds out prospectus) 'Shall I turn the light on so we can read it together?' 'I really don't think I can deal with this nonsense right now. Maybe tomorrow.' (Nod and smile, always smile as you back out of the darkened room)

It's all just a fucking charade.

Ironic.

It is perhaps the most ironic thing in the world. The situation in which not getting the one thing you thought you wanted the most will maybe finally set you free.

And free to do what? It's a tough world they say and money talks. Yes money talks. We've all seen how and what it can do. How it can enslave and liberate. Keep people together and drive them apart.

It's a tough world they say and I'd have no money. No college degree or credibility or work experience. All I'd have is a report book filled with A's and a head filled with pretentious world views. But maybe just maybe I'd never have to answer to anyone again. Not in that way ever again.

And what would the alternative be? Money talks and people walk and I'd be sitting in a classroom come September. And it would be the most ironic thing in the world. To sit there at that hippie university, learning about liberties and freedoms and knowing full well that I have none. Because I'm paying for this textbook, this laptop, this lecture with the binding of my soul.



And it would be the most ironic thing in the world. If I graduate one day with my head filled with independent, empowered drivel and my heart a testament to the fact that in order to learn it I chose to sell myself to a man.

A Letter

Dear Wicked Witch of the East,

I keep thinking it's been a while. Years almost. And yet it hasn't.

I keep thinking about where you are and who you've been charming and who you wake up to. And what you do in between of course.

New York is lovely. It would perhaps be lovelier if you were here to force me to stop thinking about sums and numbers and forces and other things you find utterly unlovely. I'd probably have seen the whole damn place by now in fact.

I saw Noam Chomsky the other day and he looked exactly as you imagined he would. Had I not seen him myself I would never have believed that because I told you to read him in the first place. But you imagined what he'd look like. I swear I picked up the phone to call you and then realized I don't have your number anymore.

I've watched every movie that ever made you cry and read every DH Lawrence novel and Andrea Gibson poem, I could quote from them but you would just call me pretentious.

Mostly I just think about ties and try to understand. I wonder if you're still running away from being tied down. But who could tie you down? And who would dare?

I wonder where I'm going to post this letter. Your house in Karachi? Your much detested flat in London? Ethiopia?

Would you even read it once you recognize my handwriting?

I don't quite know how to answer anything without numbers to help me. You never quite forgave me for that. I can only say one thing in utmost certainty and that is this. That I am very much tied down. To you.

Forget the Prince. Forget the fairy tales they've been feeding you all your life. Forget Cinderella (But by all means, please remember Mulan) Forget wedding dresses that cost enough to make you feel good. Forget balcony kisses and press releases. Forget imported orchids and people who admire your jewellery but not you, never you. Forget it all.

You deserve better.

And so where was I? After all the boys left and the cigarette smoke faded as best as it could and the dark circles  under my eyes slowly-but-surely started to appear. After the books were mentioned, goodbyes said, arms caressed. After we talked about all that was sinful and wondered about the definition of the word and why it was so easy to wrap our tongues around and then fell into a silence that was  more than comfortable.

And yet, where was I?

I think I was happy.

So here's to you. 

Dealing.

'Rejected. Rejected. Rejected' And then the immediate consolations and gradual justifications rush forward and you envelope yourself in them so that you won't have to actually come to terms with the fact that a university that you would have given anything to go to simply doesn't think you're good enough. You think about the essay you worked so hard on, the stupid standardized admission tests that you slaved over, the nights you spent studying for A level exams. But guess what? At the end of the day you probably won't get to America if you don't have the money. You won't get to Canada if you don't have the money either. And even if you HAVE the money the UK won't take you because now domestics are officially paying double. Unless of course your major is Finance.

So it's all about money. Unless you're lucky. Don't get me wrong. If you get lucky and a university gives you aid or takes you despite the fact that you want to study anthropology and political science (yes, together) then that's awesome. But that makes you lucky.

'Does it all work out in the end?' I asked him. He's one of the smartest people I know. He hesitated before answering. 'It does. I mean. It really shook me. My college rejections. I didn't expect them. But then one comes out of it, realizing how the rat race to secure a spot at the top or to get into the college of 'one's dreams' is so SO over-rated'

'It doesn't matter' She said. 'Are you going to get any dumber if you go local? Of course not. Look at what you have and take the best from it. Thank God you won't be spending hundreds on a crap professor who can't teach. I met some of my best teachers at Kinnaird not when I went to the UK. You'll be fine.'

And all I could do was nod in agreement

Pieces.

He walked into the room, smiled slightly nervously and the first thing I thought was 'God. What a beautiful man.' It was almost surreal. He moved his hands with a grace I could never begin to hope for. His eyes lit up when he talked about anything outrageous. Which was often of course and then he'd laugh self consciously.

I could have looked at him forever.

And he was fun to talk to, fun to be with. I know that's not the best of descriptions. Just the word 'fun'. A million more could substitute. Comfortable, crazy, ridiculous. Heartfelt, yes. Mixed up, yes. Sexual, yes.

And then there was this one. Who told me he was 'perfectly content' with his life. Who kept up nights for no reason. Not because he was restless but just with the fucking contentment of it all. And who told me I was too restless, too all over the place, too easily bored. I told him I'm really a hopeless romantic. But not to tell anyone because it was a secret. He just laughed. I wanted a secret from him. He insisted he had none. Then he told me he'd never told anyone this but he loved the head rush he'd get after spinning in circles.

Not perfectly content after all then.