Last week.

Not a looker, he sways with the music and spits at all things Imran Khan. 'Waapis ao, I've grown an affinity towards you.' It takes plenty of hash for him to admit to being a hopeless romantic. I keep my mouth shut.

I looked around at where I was, mouth covered with a scarf for the first time in my life. Some village called Sajjikot. We climbed all the way down a hill and back up to see a waterfall and I wanted to sit there forever but then my scarf slipped from my head and a man frowned and I remembered where I was. When we finally go to the house, the women were loud and happy and affectionate. They pressed food down our throats and called for countless rounds of tea till we finally begged their leave. Four hours in a car to get back to Islamabad and while everyone slept I read Dr Faustus who sometimes reminds me of myself.

'Tis magic, magic that hath ravish'd me'

Sometimes I feel a little lost and want to run up to somebody, anybody and beg them to tell me how to feel. And when. Make me angry, make me sad, make me happy, make me love. But then I have an eight am class and a two pm one, a stint in the library, an evening out and a good book so I forget.

Six girls in Islamabad and free for the weekend too. An icy, happy blur. Different cities make us all happy. We can act out of line and nobody can say anything. Nobody knows us. Nobody cares.

Veena Malik makes me happy. I'm not getting into a feminist debate here. She just does.

She chose a kurta for some odd reason. A shawl went around her shoulders and as she looked at herself in the mirror she wondered who this was for. A man, a phase or a bit and a piece of the truth?

He's not a looker for sure so why would I give him the time of day?

Outliers.

Too much to say, too much to say, too much to say.

I always thought I was smart enough not to believe but now I've realized it's always better to take a side and be stupid about it. To argue it till the blood goes to your head. To whisper it. To dream it. To believe it. I just need to find my truth. Find the thing I should foolishly cling to.

I'm going to watch their love story unravel before my eyes, weep for them a little and then tell it to the world.

Three panelists talking about post oriental Islam. All old men (why always old men?) Hoodbhoy is on a roll tonight. There's applause whenever he bangs his fist on the table. 'Communicate' That's all they want from us. 'Tell people that secularism does not mean anti-religion' Endless applause. A whisper of revolution, even. 'Communication' a boy sitting near me is done clapping 'Who will listen?' He reaches for his bag and I see a tattoo. I wonder if his parents know.

Malcolm Gladwell has changed my world and now I want to be an Outlier too.

He sang for me. Some toned down version of a Maroon 5 song and my day went from terrible to less. Walking  back to the campus at one am we talked about the sheer arrogance that comes with assuming how special we are. 'But of course' He said, dropping me to the hostel 'We will always will think so'

Of course we will. 

Nighttime

Eleven pm and we try to sort out the tangle that our lives have been. I hate talking about him because he's new but now I realize I've never seen him in the daylight. 'Excited to go home?' He asked and I said yes. Yes I was. He squeezed my hand.

Just another party and I didn't even really want to kiss him but I was tipsy as fuck and realized that it didn't really matter anyway. Just another pair of lips. Moving. Halloween this time and of course Lahori men take full advantage of an excuse. Make up, black wings, fancy shoes. It's two am now and they're all too drunk to say no to a pretty girl selling cigarettes. We've partied enough on the side because we know the brand guy is never going to pay us the 3k each he promised. I love watching degenerate old men at parties. Too old to dance, too old to fit in. Why are they here? To sit in a reserved lounge and watch other people dance and drink?

Already dark at seven pm as I wake up in my own bed. From my room I can hear them shouting and I count days till I can go back. I was excited to come home but now I feel like a guest. It will take time to redefine home in my head and to accept that bits of home are everywhere. I brace myself and go downstairs. They stop talking when I enter. They will need time too.

Five am and I walked onto the terrace to see a girl already sitting there, crying. I take one look at her and turn one eighty degrees and back to my room to shed a few tears myself.

Oral Fixation.

I feel like I appreciate both company and solitude more now.

I value being alone. Value it because it is difficult to be alone here and hence to be savoured. An evening walk, a morning on the terrace, a solitary smoke.

I met someone today who asked me what my greatest fear was and I told him it wasn't rejection or being penniless but being unhappy. That I would never want to wake up thinking I should be living someone else's life. He told me to read Fitzgerald but it turns out we've both read Gatsby and that is ironic.

I treated today like a Sunday because there need to be more Sundays in a week, in a month, in a year.

I like to watch him smoke but I don't like smoking around him. He makes me self conscious. Mostly though, he makes me feel young.

Dawn came and I went for a jog just because I could.

I crushed the last bit of cigarette and realize that winter is finally here. Goosebumps on my skin told me so.

October is already waving goodbye. Two more months and we'll be seeing off the end of a long year. Where did it even begin? With tears and a promise that now I'm finding difficult to keep.

Lahore is lovely and despite the obvious pull of alliteration that could not be truer. Soon work will pile up and I will stop noticing morning dew. But for now.

The boy I once asked for a secret is far away. Sometimes he calls. We talk and I realize he is done measuring out his life in coffee spoons but he still can't quote from Caesar and I have always held that against him, pretentious brat that I am.

I could write pages and pages about the fact that I no longer live at home, will hopefully never live at home again. My mother came for a day and after she left she called and told that it had finally hit her. That I was gone. That now we would visit each other.

For the first time ever I wasn't sure what to say.

Hey you.

Sometimes I see bits and pieces of you in other men and it fascinates and terrifies me to no end. Last Saturday night I didn't even know what I was doing and then all of a sudden I did and when I got back it had 'you, you, you' written all over it. He's probably never even met you. I'll never really know what he's up to either.

I hope he fades into the background. He's as unreal as you were.

But still, there are nights when I think of you and smile. I'll give you that much. You made me smile like nobody else could. Despite the fact that I knew what you were like.

Much love.

Today.

Today, while lugging groceries up three floors after haggling with a rickshaw driver, I realized exactly how much I've changed and how good this place has been for me.

'Karachi is burning, darlings.' Powder puff and then a dab of lipstick. Fiery red dress and I smile at the irony. Karachi burnt for a while before you noticed. You were shocked out of your bed at one am just a few days ago. Early.

Unreal City. Funny how much Karachi reminds me of Eliot. Maybe because bits and pieces are literally a wasteland. Desert. Who goes there?

 'You're here because of dengue, she can't go out like that, I never know where he is. Never. What is going on?' My mother is worried. My mother never worries. It just doesn't happen. But now she says a prayer every morning before she drops my sister off to school. She says a prayer knowing what is meant to happen will happen. She sends another kid, perpetually rebelling, to school not knowing if he even goes to school half the time, not knowing where he'll end up.

They tell us, apparently, there are mosquitoes mentioned in the Book. I don't know what that means. Is the end near? Should I have capitalized that 'e'? Is this how we're meant to go? How undramatic.

Eleven houses destroyed and I knew one of them well. Twice a week a woman taught us Hamlet soullessly. And she would tell us, rich kids with foreign passports, to get out while we could. Now now now. And then her house exploded and I wonder whether she'll leave.

And somewhere there are floods. I'm not sure where. Were they mentioned too? Should we check?

Should we leave? Karachi is burning, darlings. My parents are getting old. But where would we go? Back there? It's too cold there. Too different. Karachi is burning but at least we'll stay and try to salvage the pieces we loved the most. And maybe soon, sooner than soon, we can try again.