Razor's Edge

He's called me in to the conference room, and the regional CEO has flown in to arrange this charade. They both beam in an avuncular manner as I enter. Old white patriarchal men. My nemesis.

I smile through the farce of introductions. We laugh through some neutral chit chat. The flight. The weather. The traffic. The coffee comes. We are all biding our time, the reason for the meeting, an elephant in the room. A weight on my chest, crushing my breath.

A problem. I'm a problem. An expensive problem. They've invested too much into this, and need to fix me because things have gotten bad.

I grit my teeth and then wait patiently. Sure enough, once the coffee is laid down, the regional CEO exits, leaving just the two of us.

He decides to smile neutrally and lean back, and doesn't say anything. 

Oh is that how he's going to play it. I don't rise to the bait. I return the close lipped smile, and stay silent too. Deadpan. Don't fidget. Don't pull out any notepad or pen. Don't sip the coffee. Just maintain eye contact in the friendzone triangle, thinking no thoughts, letting the time calmly tick by. breathe in...1... 2... 3... 4.... 5... hold...  breathe out... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10...

He lasts 30 very long uncomfortable seconds. Three breaths. He clears his throat, and says, "Well, lets begin shall we. Why don't you tell me why you think I'm here?"

That's when I pull out my notebook, and take my time opening to the right page. "Sure!" I answer pleasantly, and then hunt for a pen and pull that out. We both watch me up cap it, and write the date on top.

When I've made him wait, look up, and start before he can say anything. "So to start I think it's fairly obvious you're here because Mr. Regional Guy feels my methods and techniques are ruffling team members the wrong way."

His left temple twitches just a bit at my directness. He doesn't deny it, just keeps steadily looking at me.

I look him dead in the eye. "However, you both know, that the things I'm doing are correct." I let that sit for a few seconds. He knows it. I know it. "I will be unpopular. People get ruffled because I'm doing things differently and they don't like it. But sometimes you need to break some eggs to make an omelet."

He sits, not saying anything. Fine.

"The ask to do this while making people like me - it's difficult. The same thing that makes me good at what to do, is the exact thing that makes me bad at being nice. And in a culture that pretty much hates women, it sometimes feels like they don't like me just because I exist outside the kitchen."

"Oh come on, it's not as bad as that" he's goaded into saying. Ok I went too far with kitchen comment. Reel it in.

I look down. Too many rooms. Too many men. Too many meetings. A lifetime of being dismissed, spoken over, considered abrasive. The same words from a man - respect. From me - uncomfortable. I don't expect him to ever understand. "I've lived and worked here for too long C. This comes with the territory."

 

"Look. I may not understand the context as well as you do, but I do know people. You're smarter than this. It is counter productive to generate so much animosity. What good is suggesting a path, if no one likes you enough to want to listen to you."

Ouch.

He sees the blow land. And softens his tone "You are smart enough to find a way to figure this out."

I can't. I just cannot. "Ok sure. But how about some support. A united front. If you fan the flames you're undermining what I'm trying to achieve. Help me out. I clearly cannot do this without you and Mr. Regional CEO."

He figets now, a little uncomfortable.  His gaze shifts and he can't quite meet my eye. Shit. Someone did complain about me. That's what started it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It takes everything in me to not ask who it was. I guess wrong it'll show I've pissed off more people then he knows. Guess right and it'll show that I knew I was fucking up but didn't resolve my shit. Fucking hell. 

He looks back up at me. In the eye. "Ok. Point noted. We could have handled it a little better."

I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you. I'll make sure we never have to have a conversation like this again."

We both crack a smile at that. Hard part over. "That would be great. Let's get RC back in and get a plan of action in place."

Nakedfeet

I walk into the room of glittering strangers with my naked feet. Again.

This room is no different to the hells of middle school parties in karachi, except this is the middle aged aunty version in Lahore. It's month end, and a Monday, so I've been in meetings for 12 hours since 7am. I thought I'd have time to do my hair. I last ate a toast at at 827am, taking exactly 3 minutes. It is now 727pm, and I'm aleady 2 hours late to the 530pm invite. I walk in from the heat, and am instantly conscious of my hair, clearly un-blowdried in the ocean of perfect coifs. The second feeling is one of making a wardrobe mistake. Everyone is in some pastel version of green. I grabbed the first designer shalwar kameez I had that was ironed, but i now realize it was the wrong material, wrong designer, wrong bag (last seasons bottega urgh) and i stick out like a lawn spring sore thumb in a sea of some weird new chiffon, and some iteration of a crystal designer spring summer collection flats. I'm wearing the standard Cavalli I bought 5 yrs ago, I can drive and walk in them, and they're decent enough to switch from meeting to soirees, but my feet shrink just a bit in embarrassment as I'm given the head to toe and found profoundly lacking.

I take a deep breath and greet the hostess, taking a moment to thank God I grabbed the flowers some guests got yesterday along with my recycled present. She's airkissing me, looking at my hair and outfit pityingly. Her sister - weirdly also married into the same house in some kind of weird first cousin interbreeding orgy - sweetly presses a plate in my hand and makes me feel welcome. I awkwardly say my hellos, but before my ass is on the sofa they're calling me for the pictures.

I jump up, position myself on a corner perch. They all pose on their good side effortlessly, and i surpress the urge to fix my hair, a youthful stress habit my hands are still twitching to do. We take at least 25 pictures, in rounds of 5. Its nuts, but everyone takes is very very seriously. I don't bother, I just have to trust the halo effect works. 

I walk over, steeling myself for the dreaded chitchat. The photoshoot is continuing without me now, and I know they're staring daggers because I dared to break out of the mean girl clique but I'd rather do that then sit and grin like a fool for another minute. Out of the frying pan, and into a horror lined well where either I overshare, or inevitably say something weird that will cause cringe for the next 1-5 business days depending on the depravity of the situation. I latch on the former PTA president, her elder sister vibe and social skills graciously patch my ineptitude. She smiles knowingly as I check the time - she knows my insane schedule well. "Let me guess - month end?" Her husband is something senior in the middle east, I had served as technical advisor to his fund earlier. "And a monday! I'm going to do payroll from the car after this" and we both crack up.

As we're laughing I accidently bump into another someone. She grabs me and ruthlessly hugs and air kisses me thrice (so confusing who follows two vs three). "I just HAVE to come hang out in your garden darling, those pictures you keep posting are just DIVINE".  I grin, "No formality with you babe, please come over! I literally attended either your wedding. Or wait you're so little, was it your sisters?". Her elder brother - now a super famous businessman known for his car collection - was in my undergrad program albeit senior. We had attended enmasse and done all the dances, like the marasis we were.

I make my way over and finally sit, and see another acquaintance. She's on the board of the french embassy, I had recently met the ambassador at this signing ceremony for the work we're doing with the Punjab government. I tell her how there were 3 organizations signing with the minister, but the poor ambassador was so confused- and the language barrier so great - he just stood there for all the pictures. I pull out the picture and scroll through my reels - damn my emails are pinging hope its not a web app dev deployment issue - and we both howl at the sight of a serious MOU signing with the classic flags and wood and leather, and all dignitaries and one confused white man posing with no idea he wasn't supposed to be there.

We must have been too loud, because I feel the unkind beady eyes of mean girl # 1 on me. Yikes. Our kids have been enrolled in the same institution since literally age 2 Gymboree, but she has weighed me up countless times and dismissed me. I'm guessing my lack of any interest in all things she values would be the cause of it. I had once launched into the outrageous pricing strategy of Chanel doubling their Classic flap within one season, laughingly mentioning how I went intending to buy the classic only to walk out with just a wallet because they had damn well increased the price from $5500 to $10000. (I still get choked with outrage at the audacity). I think that had been the moment. We were all in one big happy class whatsapp group till around then, but then she had made a smaller offshoot group and had included me, and after that probably went ahead and made another even smaller one to make fun of me. Circles within circles. Someone or the other kept forwarding me screenshots of the vitriol, I couldn't stop laughing. "Oh darling you're looking so stressed and tired" she says like a cartoon villaness. Her side kick is missing thank God. I awkwardly take a step back, laugh and say "yesss, you know, surviving on caffiene and stress", but - poison dart delivered - she's turned away before I finish. I guess I chose my side when I decided to get educated and work, and I'm too strong a representation of all she is not - trophy wife to short nepo baby toad of a man. Her schooling, college, no real accomplishments just too threatening to her self worth. So she clings to her value system, putting me down secretly in little groups so she feels better about herself. Oh well. 

I make it out alive - there is a stunning, customized box with my name engraved on it as a giveaway - and I have no doubt it is full of thoughtful beautiful expensive things. The kind that speak of a life of effortless wealth, attention to detail, and free time. Time to get hair done, and manis and pedis and skin treatments, and swapping out the resort collection for spring summer. The tote with my first name initialed into it belongs on a beach in mallorca, I don't feel worthy. I hug and thank the sisters, and escape out the door with my nakedfeet, having survived. 

D

I'm attending the investment banker bro sausage fest to watch my friend F speak on a panel. We are two of the only five women in the entire auditorium, and she was only added at the last minute when she met the organizer on her flight over. In fact, the stage has space for 4 chairs, and it's quite clear there is no space for the 5th one which has her name tag in front of it, half hidden behind the podium. She was clearly added as the after thought.

I have crashed the conference because I hadn't seen her since she moved to Zurich, only to find as I get there that she is in the middle of changing her flight to leave early. "How could you F! You just got here and you're flying back out in 3 hours! What the fuck!" I forget to use my inside voice, and the guy standing next to her turns, startled, at the expletive.

We both muffled our giggles that. She slaps his arm, and said "Oh let me introduce you, you guys were both in the same school and may know each other."

She says his name - famous billionaires son, running the media line - I had heard of him of course, but don't remember him from school. The lean build, crisp white shirt that screams of something expensive because it wasn't rumpled like everyone else's. And those glasses. Uff. I have always found nerd white boys hot. I avoid F's eye because she knows me too well, and knows exactly what she's doing. Her grin is unbearable. 

"Oh I was class of 99! Nice to meet you!" I smile at him. He blinks, checking me out, and I inwardly smirk because I know I look hot. My hair was done because of the thing I went to yesterday, and I'm wearing that super expensive designer shirt that hid my newly acquired tummy pudge. Casual, summery, yellow in a sea of black conference suits. I had to state my class year, by way of introducion. It's this weird jig we all do, trying to figure out who we are in the six degrees of separation. Which side of the snob line my pedigree lies in. Somewhere in the middle, thank you very much, he and his ilk are way cooler and way richer than me.

He's looking a little flumoxed. We all pause, confused. "Who were you..." he trails off awkwardly. "I was with A and G" i mention the house captains everyone knew, and he recognizes one of the names.

"Oh how. She was much younger.." and then "Oh I was confusing that with my college year! I was with her elder brother!" 

"Ah yes! I just met him recently, he and T had flown up toghether for that school alum game we hosted". Social positioning established, I move back to my friend and we go back to talking. She walked on to the plane that morning with only one earring, and once I'm done with my laughing fit, I offer mine. She cannot go on to stage with that! But she insists, probably because she finds my large freshwater pearls too lahori for her taste.

He's listening to us, amused, but also pretending to be on the phone.

***

It's been months. Random dates. Lots of messages. Lots of missed availability windows because he doesn't live in Lahore. And his work of course. He just got back from Davos and has stopped over in this city, because I was visiting for a wedding.

I'm in his hotel room. Holy shit. I have ducked out from the dholki in the other building. The walk over, jittery with excitement. I couldn't believe it. Me. It was going to happen! 

He was SO cute. From the second F introduced us at that conference, it was inevitable.

I've lost weight (thank you Diet by Design), without the GLPs that freak me out. My panties almost incinerate when he opens the door and hustles me in before someone sees.

So clandestine. We've been sexting all day. 

He latches the door behind me, his arm trapping my body close. Uff. I know I'll remember that cologne forever. 

He looks down at me, and I can tell he likes what he sees. He uses the lack of space to position himself between my legs, his strong arms hook my butt up, so I'm his height now. My legs wrap around him, and we both give a muffled erghm because we're old and not as flexible anymore but then settle into it. "Hi  I think I may have the wrong room. I'm looking for my friend X" i quip. We both crack up. He's grinning. I'm grinning. 

"Hello." He puts his forehead on mine. 

"Hello to you too."

I have a fleeting moment to wonder if that lush head of hair is real or transplanted before I dig my hands into it, and pull him down to my mouth.

***

I've moved back to Karachi, home sweet home. Its a 12 month gig, one academic year, and was messy as hell manage Rs school year and payments, but we made it work because the money is helping me save for his college, because goddamn that kid isn't going to be getting any scholarships.

I enter the elevator to get to the gym on the 20th floor, typically I would avoid these expensive coed ones but this is Karachi and its broken shitty roads that take unnecessarily long to go anywhere, and this is literally 90 seconds from my house, and I'm not going to go out of my way to do something I loathe. So I suck it up, shifting uncomfortably pulling my tshirt down to cover my butt as I pass the security guard. 

I emerge and nothing, I mean nothing, beats the view. miles of concrete jungle, stretching into the horizon, soaring with the eagles. I'm momentarily distracted by a 20 yr old doing squats in her sports bra and what can only be described as underwear. The boy cut kind I liked to buy in middle school. I glare at the desk attendant who is staring at her through the glass doors, standing slack jawed ogling her bottom, but he has the courtesy to notice my pointed look and avoid my eye and appears fixated by his feet as he beeps me in. 

The trainer is waiting. I would have preferred a woman, but he was the only trained physiotherapist. Thirty year old gym bro trainers are someone I would typically avoid like the plague. Even with this one, I had to explain all the medical stuff three times, and he didn't quite take me seriously till I literally brought my x-rays and had my doc speak to him. Now he is super careful, and actually listens when I tell him not to push it. In fact he's more cautious then I am sometimes, and I caught him sweating in apprehension the last time I tried one of the more advanced stretches.

I discuss the plan for the session (he's recommeding extending the core exercises), and then warm up with a run. Never ever thought I could pull that off with my joints, but the miracle of modern medicine, apparently running is now good for middle aged women.

So I'm red, sweating ungracefuly, in my voluminous tshirt, panting like I'm having an angina episode, when of course he walks in. Fucking billionaire media mogul fucker. The one who didn't have the courtesy to just cheat on me but had to honestly and earnestly confess that his wife wanted to reconcile, and actually asked me what he should do. Of course he needed to go back to his wife and kids. His father in law owned the media house he was employed at. No way in hell i could compete with blocking the reconciliation of two of the richest families in the country. And all for nothing, because they ended things a year later anyway. Fuckers. I squash down the memories. He's taking off his glasses and putting them on the side of the bed so he could kiss me. Breathe. Focus. Doing that thing with his mouth. Stop it. Looking at me like I'm the hottest thing he's ever seen. It meant nothing to him you fool. He went on this weird post divorce cliche, dating a string of models like a fucking walking midlife crisis. I wish I'd worn a nicer tshirt. This one keeps fucking falling off my shoulder showing the ratty sports bra straps. I've even used it to blow my nose 5 minutes ago.

I see in the mirror that he clocks me almost instantly and freezes, pole axed. Someone bumps into him from behind and jostles him out of his double take. He didn't know I've moved here. He looks like he's about to come over. I try to make the unfriendliest expression I can muster, but underwear girls squeals a hello grabs his arm and pulls him in the other direction. Good. Fuck him.

I'm doing floor work on a yoga mat, which is apparently also something only women like to do, because even after months of this I still get the side eye. I'm not doing weighted leg lifts on some gross gym floor mats thank you very much. I swat the trainers hands away as they hover solicitiously near my back, one of the unfortunate side effects of him knowing the number of rods in there. "You can do it maam, just 40 more", he says cheerily, and I want to kill him.

At the 30th rep, I stumble because my knee gives up a bit. Maybe the hip, hard to tell where it starts sometimes. The trainer has a heart attack trying to grab my elbow, and I become completely unstable as I try to shove his arm away. I detest it when medical aides treat me like a patient, because fuck that. Unfortunately, that means I stumble into the back of the guy resetting some weights on a machine helping sports bra chick who had been effortlessly out squatting me. He turns around, and fuck me sideways it's him. Shit.

He smiles good naturedly. He discreetly looks at me, stripping me down to my soul like he always does. He takes in my red sweaty face, ratty tshirt and has the audacity to get that look. The one where he makes me feel special. Hell no.

"How is A doing," I smile and ask cheerily about his ex-wife, and that knocks the smile off his face. I watch the comment land, and he looks gutted. Shit i feel bad 

"Oh, she's ok. I think anyway" He's blinking rapidly, a little choked up. He hesitates, and then lowers his voice. "We - we - decided to divorce last year. I was..." he trails off when he meets my eyes, his courage apparently failing unable to complete the sentence. 

I resist the urge to jump in and fill the silence.

He looks up at me again, and then shakes his head as if to clear it. "I'm just gym buddying with my friend from work", and he jerks his head towards underwear girl. Of course he is. That fucker. I can't help but glance over, and I know there is no way my body - the one that's churned out another human - can hold a candle to her midriff. He looks a little uncomfortable seeing my expression, as if suddenly realizing what I must be thinking. He opens his mouth to say something, but I huff and mumble about cradle snatching and go back to the trainer who's now holding a lighter weight and my knee brace. Damnit.

*

I'm still in the damn knee brace when I'm rooting around the locker. They had kindly given me the ones closer to the floor once they realized with my height, I couldn't reach the top level, but it's super awkward trying to pull my gym bag out with 40 yr old knees and I spill stuff out. The guy with the locker above mine of course approaches at that minute. I am at sock level. A lipstick had rolled over to his shoe. He bends down and picks it up, and crouches down to help. I look up gratefully into beautiful brown eyes. Oh for fucks sake.

He blinks rapidly, and I realize I said the last bit out loud. He looks down at me at his feet and smiles his beautiful sweet open honest smile, and just looks so... happy... to see me. The fucker.

Of course he's been given the locker above mine. 

And that moment, with my sweat filled work out clothes, my shirt falling off my shoulder, hair in a French braid, on my bloody knees on a floor with all my stuff strewn around me, he's looking at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Fuck, I feel my cheeks heat up because of his proximity. I try to take a deep breath to get a grip,  to step back, but all I get is a wave of that damn cologne of his, and my mind reels unable to think. I put my hand on the floor to brace myself, I think I'm going to keel over.

He holds my elbow and gets me up, and it feels like a hot coal has touched me. I flinch, and my body ignites in flame. He is oblivious, picking up the pieces of my bag strewn around us. 

My throat has slammed shut and I can't say anything. He's at my feet. I'm going to scream. He didn't call. I'm going to cry. He's hanging out with hot skinny 20 yr olds. My skin is on fire. I can't breathe. You never meant anything to him. 

He's putting the stuff into my open gym bag. He looks up at me, and my heart twists. Every defense gone. He didn't even call.

Oblivious, he's now done picking up my bag. When I don't put my hand out to hold it, he awkwardly puts it on my shoulder. Cross body, how I always do it. We are standing way way too close, but I can't help it. It's like he has some sort of graviational force field. He's this black hole and I'm the star going nova, about to be sucked in. His eyes. Chocolate. So sweet. They have so much hope. So much regret. I'm drowning in his eyes.  

He raises his hand like he's going to touch me, but catches himself and stops.

I hear the shuffle of footsteps approaching and we both jump back guiltily.

I don't even thank him. I don't even try to keep my dignity. I just turn and run.

the witch

Born on 27th ramadan, a holy night. Under a month old, she nearly died. She was without oxygen for 15 minutes. Maybe 5, 15 seems unlikely. Her mother was holding her in the emergency room waiting room in the shitty but expensive third world private hospital. A world where money doesn't buy quality. where life is cheap. Blue. Unbreathing. while her mother screamed, nurses ran around trying to find the doctor in the middle of night - he was probably sleeping somewhere they didn't know where - her father with his flight aviation job on the other side of the country. They may have listened to a man when if he had been there, but let's not dwell on that. it was a time when women reared children, and men went away to work, and all were ok with the arrangement.

the resident was about to do a trichotomy when the emergency room doctor finally showed up. he stopped them as the scalpel was raised, and told them to administer oxygen. how had they forgotten such a basic thing. maybe her mother didn't remember it as clearly. maybe she didn't remember the story as clearly. with a combination of some drug and the oxygen, she came back. there must have been a worry about cognitive deficits. her mother never told her.

She survived. but she was different. touched by the light. before she could count, when playing card games with her grandparents and parents and older sisters, she used to often notice the King. she couldn't look at his face, it was too bright. Too much light. Just like God. She didn't know it was blasphemous, she was too little, she just knew that that kindly old man on the cards struck a chord in her soul she couldn't understand.  

Then the night terrors came. she wet the bed, almost every night for seven long years. the horrors in the dark. she initially slept with her parents and that kept some of it at bay. cuddled up in the middle of her two favorite people, a valley of peace among two mountains. but then once at the breakfast table she asked them why they didn't wear clothes the night before and her father sprayed the orange juice in his mouth across the table and her mother choked on her toast, she was moved to her sisters room, her parents door locked. the terrors worsened, she tried banging on her parents room some nights, when she could make her way from the vast empty black chasm of horrors from her bed to the door and make it to the next room. she was sometimes allowed entry, sometimes not and had to often make her way back running through the black to leap on the mattress.  

When she was six she learned the ayat ul qursi, and that helped with the night terrors. it allowed her to put up a wall of light around her bed. the relief. the dreams still came through, but it allowed her to rest. that's when she noticed baba. or kaka. can't believe I've forgotten his name. her jinn friend, the little one. her age, shadowing her life in a parallel existence for a little while. he was a friend. he especially liked playing with her brothers dinky cars. he disappeared eventually, probably around 12 years old. that was as far into the future she could see. something happened after that. the line on her hand was short, so she just assumed she would die. She was right in her own way. it was the death of her childhood. the echoes of that power stayed behind in little memories, deja vu, dreams of the future coming true, like way points in the darkness. but she never saw the future as clearly again then when she was a child.

she could see light in some people also. shining blindingly out of their faces, like the King of Spades at that time in the past. like that stranger at the airport luggage counter. or the boy she eventually married. their features would disappear, and a beacon of light blinded her instead of their face. 

but eventually it all faded, and the only thing left was the dreams others had through her. memories of a past lived. the one she had made a dua that she wanted to see, only to see again and again humans living the same stories again and again, the cycle of life.      

the office

I'm sitting across the desk from his fancy curved monitor. we'd met at that fancy crypto guys dinner, but I had emailed him a few weeks before about something else, and serendipitously apparently my face had been displayed on the CS building as esteemed alumni (they didn't tell ME that), so all three layers on in-yun leading to some sort of culmination to that meeting.

i'm waiting for my colleague to join me. in my mind she's much richer, and therefore much more succesful. I love that she's single, flitting from one european country to the next, thin, had her 40th in thailand and rented a yacht with the best booze and food i've ever had in my life. i haven't had such a nice weekend in my life. she lives in one of those insane estates only people here have, in a separate area designated only for her.

she finally comes, sits and we start discussing. The attention he's giving my words is flattering. the way he's looking at me, I have to try hard to ignore it. and as she's talking, I'm suddenly seeing her through his eyes - no real academic accomplishments, a nepo baby doing a minor role in her family business. Run of the mill. he sees me, my grades, my awards, my work, and is more impressed, and it takes his kind brown eyes for me to see this.

its shocking how easy the conversation is. we want to introduce a course which will give university credit. he wants me to teach it. she is dying to teach it, but he kind of dismisses her and asks me directly. I look over at her, and say let's discuss. I'm cautious, I know how much most of my undergrad profs knew. the caliber of faculty in this place is nuts, they're doing cutting edge research, know about the latest shit and there is no way in hell my non-PHD ass is going to ever achieve that level of mastery. she's talking, but really wasn't ever a good student and studied in some tier 2 local university so really wouldn't know either.  his warm enthusiasm wins the day and it gets pushed through.

somewhere in this process i have a dream. I'm teaching in that university classroom. I am way underqualified. for some reason he is there. there is some coffee, a request for advice. I go into that office with the curved monitor, and since its safe in my dream (i know even then its a dream), there are no cameras, no ethics, no students, no wife of his probably, no staff, no real room even in this shadow realm. I know i could end it, wake myself up, pull myself out, but I allow it for the briefest of moments, acknowledging the outside conscious world where Z broke me - tore me apart limb from limb with his beatings and his lies and his mental torture - and how i am whole again like some pottery kitsungi-d together with lines of gold glueing back the pieces of my spirit - and that for that one briefest of moments in my dream I can allow his kind brown eyes to come real close, hold my face, and allow a man kiss me again.   

Superman

Who is he? A manifestation of white savior complex - a white colonizer rescuing brown shalwar kameezed people. Horrified right wingers disturbed that brown terrorists portrayed as victims. brown ppl angry at being type cast yet again.

Who is he? a manifestation of an age old primal story - big strong good man rescues the girl. So good looking. So nuanced. So flawed and human. So broad shouldered. A fantasy. Because we don't get rescued, we all have to rescue ourselves, and we try to taste the fantasy for a runtime of 2 brief hours, hoping the caramel-salt popcorn mixture overrides the bitter ashes of adulthood in our mouths.

Who is he? A good role model for boys. Better than some stupid race car driver who likes fast cars. Better than some stupid stoic beefcake who doesn't feel, who is cold, who murders, yet also does some cute scenes with little girls as a nice foil to his machismo. He loves. His girlfriend. His dog. His robots. His parents - adopted or otherwise. He is respectful. And introspective. And lives his life trying to do good.

Who is he? A manifestation of manipulation, the very architects of the hateful broken world they commentate on.

Mikaeel

From deep within my dreams, I wake. My eyes are still closed, but as long as I can remember, I always wake up, exactly at fajr. Always. My earliest memories are from when I was 5, and still believed that a jinn kept me company. He was my age, and we played together into the night. While his friends were frightening, he was nice.

But I am 30 now, and pregnant, and my eyelids feel like rocks. My feet, swollen from the babymoon plane ride back to Lahore. My consciousness submerging again, when I feel a presence at my bedside. My friend Ns mother, calling me "Wake up, it's fajr. Time to pray. It's Ns mom, N..."

Eyes still closed, I say "ugh go away I don't like N that much" I hiss, too tired to care about being jostled by imaginary voices. I feel her recoil in shock, and - oh there's a man next to her - she tells him, let's go.

I feel bad - "I'm sorry!" I manage to yell out as they flit away. "I do love N!" she turns and hears me, and I feel a little less guilty. 

---

Well bollocks I'm fully awake now, might as well open my eyes. I turn on the lamp, and decide I might as well pray. I drag my swollen feet to the bathroom for wuzu, and then say my 2 sunnat and 2 farz. I can't sit too long for the dua, my legs are already numb with the baby pressing into my spine now. My first thought it for N and her mom. Terminal pancreatic cancer, discovered 2 months ago. N has been going nuts importing every single cure from every corner of the planet - from ayurvedic medicines from the far east, to a root from East Africa, to manuka honey from Australia. Allopathic medicine had given up hope from the moment it was diagnosed.

But for the first time in two month, the words praying for a miraculous recovery don't come. "Whatever happens, let it be for the best Allah mian, let Ns mom not be in pain anymore, and help N and her family find peace with this"

I finish up and go sit on the bed, but before I close the lamp I impulsively pick up the BlackBerry and message - "Love you, said a prayer for aunty, thinking of you guys" I hesitate - will I wake her up - but I decide to send it anyway.

Within one second, my phone lights up. It's N, and she's howling "She's gone! She's gone. It just happened a little while ago and you messaged! How did you know!"     

I don't think I was supposed to see that man. I don't think anyone living is supposed to.

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I'm standing in a porch on a sunny day. It's not my house, maybe an old house I don't remember, or somewhere I'm going to be in the future. I'm holding a baby in my arms. I'm only 23, it's March, and I know this is a dream and I'm asleep at home in my bed in Karachi. 

I'm barefoot, and the baby's fat chubby cheek is pressed in my mine. i love it. i walk out on to the car porch, and I see my grandmother standing at the gate. But she has my face. How odd. She looks at the baby in my arms, and gives the most beautiful smile, full of light and love. I step from the car porch towards the gate, I want to show the baby to ama. 

Ama looks alarmed as I almost step into the hot sunlight. the baking heat, the ground like fire, and it's only March in Karachi, but it feels like May in Lahore. Maybe ama is worried about the baby being in the sun? I stop at the edge of the porch roof shadow, in the shade, and she walks up and looks at me, and we're both crying and smiling as I hold the baby in my arms.

ammmbbaaaaa a muffled distorted slow-mo type voice comes through like a loudspeaker. I'm in bed now, more asleep than awake, and my eyes are still closed and I can't control them enough to open as yet, and i know it must be fajr, but I'm about to go back down. Is that the azaan i hear? a muffled ammmmbbbaaaaaaa droning in my background. Aba? My father? So strange I think as sleep takes over.

When I stumble out of bed to go to work, no one is there. I pull out my Nokia and turn it on, and pour some tea and butter my toast while it boots up. I'm halfway through my toast when the phone finally turns on and sure enough there are several tell tale beeps. SMS is too expensive, so I know it's not my brokeass friends. It's my father - Ama passed last night. Take the next flight out to us, soyem is today. I've told the driver to be there to take you to the airport.