Misfits
A chick-lit story about two misfits, set in Lahore, Pakistan — Please excuse some slang
I stare at the man, gawk at him actually. He is wearing very short shorts, his shirt is unbuttoned a little too low and his cheap silver chain glimmers in the afternoon sun. I purse my lips and fold my arms, wondering how I can best express outrage at this audacity. Who does he think he is? This is Pakistan for God’s sake, and we are in an awami (local) park.
The breeze is growing restless, and I feel it pull at my shawl. Quickly, I draw the shawl tighter around my shoulders, making sure it covers as much of my body as possible. There are a few other men walking in the park, holding hands in typical Pakistani fashion, but none of them pass on the opportunity to turn and stare at me. I shrivel up a little more like an uncomfortable amphibian on land. Then I look down at myself and crinkle my nose. My clothes are extremely baggy, in attempts to hide my bosoms or any remote signs of a curve. Was it working? I don’t think so. The men are still staring, and I can’t help but feel incredibly self-conscious.
I break away from these thoughts as I feel the tug on my leash. It’s Milo, my dog. She’s in no mood to engage with my ramblings. She wants action. I remove her leash, letting her loose. Immediately, she runs on to the grass and begins digging a hole with great delight. Look how free she is, I think. In fact, she might be freer than most of the people in this country.
I smile, then quickly look around to make sure no one sees me gushing over a dog. If mom had seen me smiling like a sap, she’d think I needed children. My biological clock was ticking, after all.
The stares have begun to increase, and I realize that the chaddi (shorts) guy I was shamelessly staring at earlier is no longer the oddball in the park. I am, and I know exactly why. A young female walking a dog in a public park is an unusual sight in Pakistan, especially since dogs are not taken to kindly here. Maybe, I should get cats, I wonder. They’re more kosher, halal, I mean.
Amir looks around. It’s 6:30 pm on a Sunday, and still balmy despite the setting sun. City sounds are on mute, and the only sound he hears is the wind brushing the trees around him, as he sits tucked away quietly in a courtyard at the edge of the large park. He’s holding the newspaper in one hand and running the other one through his hair.
“Who’ll pay for Trump’s wall?” one of the headlines ran. Amir scoffs, the anger and disappointment mounting in him. He wonders if America is still the land of opportunity, he once believed it to be. Would it now be the land of oppression for him?
He looks around and senses that he is an oddity here in Lawrence Garden: A middle-aged bachelor wearing shorts to Lahore’s famous public park.
He sighs. Here too, in his homeland, he felt like an imposter, a foreigner in his own native Lahore. It was then a choice of being an anomaly here or an anomaly somewhere else. Alas, identity was such a conflicted construct.
He continues reading, his thoughts interspersed with a sense of melancholy and longing. A faint breeze fans his hair and he looks around. The only other people he could see in the garden were two men walking in the park, and a couple sitting on a bench a few feet away. The woman is clad in a burqa and the man has his arms around her. Neither of them looks his way, perhaps too busy spending a romantic evening alone at the park.
Amir smiles, tilting his head back as he looks around. He likes this park. In fact, he likes all public places. It’s where he gets to see the real range of Pakistanis: the greasy-haired Punjabi boys; the bearded family man; the jogger-wearing, burqa-clad ladies; and the overweight aunties. What Amir doesn’t like is his own home. It can feel like a cage at times, trapping him into a social role, binding him to be the “sahib”. Yet, the moment he leaves home, the moment he’s on the streets, the moment he’s amongst the common folks, that’s when he sees life as it truly is: raw, beautiful, and ugly. Ugly with its poverty, beggars, big people running over the small ones and injustice. It’s only then that Amir realizes he’s been in a bubble, living in a dream all along.
Amir’s meandering thoughts are soon disturbed by the furious barks of a terrier. He looks over the magazine to check what the matter is. There, in front of him is the barking dog and its owner: a young girl or a woman, he hadn’t decided yet. And both of them are clearly looking very out-of-place in this park.
He couldn’t help but examine the girl. Maybe it had something to do with her mismatched clothes. What look was she trying to pull off? Her large, woolen shawl is tightly wrapped around her, making every effort to hide her grey shalwar and faded white, oversized T-shirt. The T-shirt might have succeeded in hiding the curves, but her white, lacy bra was quite visible from the armholes. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
She turns to him, her arms quickly folding over her chest, “What’s so funny?” she asks.
Quickly, Amir straightens his face, “Why’s your dog barking?”
“I asked you first!” she says, pouting.
“Fair enough,” he says, “I found your clothes amusing.”
That did it. The girl’s eyes peer into his, her mouth tentative, and her expression unsure of whether to scream, yell or cry.
“You have no right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t wear!” the girl yells, “In fact, you shouldn’t be judging me on my clothes at all when you’re wearing chaddis. Haven’t you heard of indecent exposure?” The girl gives Amir a wounded but angry look, her arms folding over her chest.
She’s got a point, Amir thinks. He stares down at his legs. And then, the dog begins to bark furiously at him again.
“Oh, shut up Milo,” the girl pulls at the leash and starts walking.
“Wait.” Amir quickly gets up to apologize, the newspaper sliding to the ground, but its too late. She has already walked away.
“Damn shaadi (wedding),” Amna mutters as she watches the excited, joyful expressions of the people around her, as they reunite with their families and friends.
“Cheer up.” I nudge her. “Only a few more hours.”
“But you hate shaadis.”
“The alternative is worse,” I continue to fiddle with the flower bracelet and begin plucking the petals from the bracelet, “At least this way, I get to make fun of people.”
The dances have begun, and I stare at the arena. It looks like a kaleidoscope of colors, with deep, rich red and yellow shapes, moving atop a vibrant black, marble floor, beckoning you to join the movement. There’s laughter and clapping and I watch long enough to spot a familiar face.
I squint my eyes to look across the dance stage, and lo and behold, it’s the chaddi guy. And he seems to be caught up in some engaging conversation.
I nudge Sara once again. “I know him. He’s the guy who made fun of me in the park.”
“That guy?” Sara looks at me with wide eyes, “he’s cute!” Her lips have curled up in a hungry smile. She’s right. He’s cute. But he’s also a jerk. I frown but linger on staring at him and each time, my anger subsides a bit.
He’s surrounded by a few people, probably his friends. They all appear to be mute shapes, like moths attracted to a light bulb. He, on the other hand, is alive, animated. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but whatever he’s saying, it seems to have gripped the audience.
I wonder for a second if I should walk up to him and say hello. No, I decide. That’s too earnest. And before I know it, I leave the hall, hearing the once-muted shapes fill up the hall with their sounds of laughter. I keep moving, as the sounds of elation subsequently subside and fade away into the night.
“Excuse me, your friend, is she here?” Amir asks frantically, huffing from running in the wedding arena, looking for the odd girl from the park. After all, one moment, she’s there, and another, she’s gone.
“She just left,” Amna tries to sound sympathetic, but is in fact, trying her best to keep a straight face. She cocks an eyebrow at him, “but she remembers you!”
“She does?” Amir is a little taken aback, but in a good way. He’s clearly happy. The girl he’s been thinking about for the past week has also thought about him. But then, he remembers what a complete and total idiot he was, that day, “Listen, uh…” Amir stutters for the name.
“Amna.”
“Amna, I have to apologize to your friend for that day.”
Amna crosses her arms and peers at him, “Yeah, she was very upset about it.”
Now, Amir is concerned. He smacks his forehead and starts frowning, “Shit,’ he says under his breath. Did he miss his chance? He wants to apologize to the girl, remedy this, “Can I get her name…her number?”
Amna puckers her lips. “Uh…No! I mean, hello, who do you think I am? I don’t go around giving away my friends numbers to random strangers!” Amna rolls her eyes, and shrugs her head, waiting for his response.
“I just want to apologize.” Amir doesn’t know what else to say. He looks outright downtrodden, “Well, let her know that the chaddi guy was asking,” Amir says meekly. And then he too, leaves the wedding hall.
I grab my shawl and slide open the front door, walking out into the mini-terrace overlooking the garden. All was quiet outside, except the annoying sounds of my flapping flip flops. I look down sheepishly at them, wriggle my feet a bit and curl up my toes tightly. The sound is finally gone.
The night air isn’t as stifling as it usually is in the morning. Overhead, the moon is wrapped in a hazy mist, probably the diesel-laden smog. There are no stars, and yet, there is a strange magic in the sky, of mysticism and ancientness.
I think about all the souls who’d be up like me, staring up at the same sky, and yet, we are separated by a thick curtain of privilege. Though we breathe the same air and sleep under the same moonlight, we wake up in our different worlds: I, in my quarantined mansion-of-a-house and they, in their colorful, though overcrowded havelies (neighbourhoods). I sigh, as I can’t help but feel stuck. Stuck in a blurred dream that tried so hard to keep me from waking up.
The motia (Jasmine) are in full bloom outside. I walk along the garden path from the terrace breathing deeply of their gorgeous scent. I pretend I am holding the hand of someone special as I walk along. At that moment, I am hit with a watershed moment. I realize there is no getting away from the fact that my life is running out, like petals falling off a flower. I can sense the onset of a strange loneliness. Maybe, I should be more sociable, like mom says. After all, here I am, wandering around bored, looking at the moon all by myself. I wrap my arms around my body, shudder, and go back to my dream.
Amir’s on the road, making his way into the old part of Lahore. As soon as he crosses the last of the many overpasses, he feels like he’s entered into another world, one that had been left to its own devices and processes of decay. The roads are infinitely narrower here, the houses all cramped but flimsy, like stacked-up cardboard boxes. Wires are either dangling from poles or sprouting out from any and every crevice possible.
But some of the buildings, they were just something else. Some, like the red-bricked, Victorian-style ones, hint of former glory, though much of their grandeur is well-concealed in the laundry that clings listlessly from the windowsills. They are all reminders of a bygone era, one that Amir often romanticizes about but frankly speaking, has never been a part of.
Amir ignores the nostalgia, his attention back on the road. Throngs of cars, rickshaws and even donkeys are competing with one another for space. He looks around contentedly thinking to himself that there is some magic to the chaos. He pulls down the car shade, watching the sunlight reflect off the dust particles and heighten the haze. Then, his mind wanders back to that woman — or girl. The dog lady. He chuckles, then pulls up the shade. Maybe, the glare isn’t too bad. He needs to stop being a vampire and get some sun.
He finally makes it to the High Court. He’s supposed to be taking notes since he’s a paralegal these days. But instead of what he’s supposed to do, he’s redecorating the room in his head, doodling the designs on a piece of paper. He should’ve been an architect, he thinks.
Really though, the building is so majestic, Amir tells himself. It has so much potential like everything else in Pakistan. Ceilings are high, the tapestries date all the way back to the 18th century, and there are monochrome pictures of men standing next to tigers adorning the walls. It reminds him of his favorite book, Jungle Book. He’s quick to begin his daydreams. He pictures himself entering a grand estate with banyan trees, and then having tea with Kipling. Of course, what Amir has completely overlooked a few noticeable shortcomings. The cement of the building is peeling off. The wires are springing out of the ceilings where fans once existed. The furniture is covered in a thick blanket of grey, since no one bothered cleaning this place in decades. And the grand entrance he enters through isn’t flanked by large trees, but auto-rickshaw and tyre stands.
And in the process of his vivid fantasies of British India, an image of the girl once again pops up in his head. He didn’t expect it, but he welcomes it and smiles.
I’m glad it’s Sunday. I have plans with my friend Amna. Starting with a gossip session to discuss the chaddi guy. Did he even have a name? Amna would know. She should know. After all, she spoke to him at the shaadi. I quickly fish out my mobile phone and dial my friend’s number.
“Hello?” Amna croaks. She sounds like she had just woken up.
“Amna!” My voice echoes on the phone and I realize I sound like a restrained cat, “What time can I come over?”
There is silence on the other end, so I repeat, “Amna?”
“Hmmm… we have some aunty coming over…” Amna finally responds, but she sounds groggy. In any case, she doesn’t seem to be in any mood to entertain me or have me over.
“Listen, you can’t bail on me,” I speak in a panic-stricken voice, “We have to talk, especially since you didn’t tell me everything about that day.”
“What day?” Amna seems a little annoyed, I can tell. There’s clearly an imbalance in our energies: I being a little too hyper and she being a little too exhausted.
“The day the chaddi guy asked for me and you didn’t bother to help your single friend out,” I say.
“Oh please, get over it!”
This is great, I think. What a friend. I hope no one ever uses her services as a wingman -wingwoman, I mean.
“Next time, if you like someone, I’ll make sure never to introduce you or help you out,” I threaten her. I know this should do the trick. See, besides becoming an expert in psychoanalyzing myself, my friends and my life, I was also an expert on the craft of gilla (complaining).
Amna hesitates. My threat has worked, and I fist-ball the air.
“But how was I supposed to know you’ve gone bonkers over him?” she says.
“Oh, just shut up.”
I hang up. And then I receive a text from her within seconds of that. Come at three. Smiley face.
Amir’s heading back to the park. Today’s Sunday and unsurprisingly, he has been looking forward to this day. Not because Aunty Shagufta is having a huge party at her home. But because he is hoping he’ll bump into that odd girl again.
As he’s driving over the overpass, he braces for the assorted traffic, with the crazy motorists and unheeded traffic lights. Two big trucks full of hay, or its likes, stand on either side of his car. He blows his horn at them, then accelerates, leaving a thick cloud of dust behind. Two chowks (intersections) later, he’s finally at the park, his heart beating in anticipation.
He stops the car outside and looks at himself in the rearview mirror. Then, he spits on his fingers, combing his hair with them. He’s already started to play the conversation in his head, the conversation with his girl. Then, he sniffs his body, and curls his nose. Why is he sweating so much today?
He’s on the same bench, waiting. This time though, he has no newspaper or book to occupy his mind. The only thing on his mind is the girl. Or is it the concept of that girl. Hours have passed, and still no sign of her. He wonders if he’s blown this all out of proportion. After all, he’s read too many relationship articles to believe in serendipitous love. Before he decides to leave, Amir happens to look up at the opportune time when a bird bestows his hair with a slight dropping. Could the day get any worse?
Then, almost in a telepathic twist to end his brooding of the day, his phone rings. Amir tears himself out of his thoughts, wipes off the dropping from his hair and answers. It’s his mother, and she’s wondering where he is. After all, guests have started to show up at Aunty Shagufta’s. And they’re asking about him. For the next fifteen minutes or so, Amir labors over finding the right excuse to tell her for why he’s in Lawrence Garden at this ungodly hour. Notwithstanding that he was supposed to have picked up Benazir Kulfa for the party by now.
After a few ifs and buts, Amir ends the conversation with the promise to be at the party in thirty minutes. He sighs as he hangs up. He knows he’s waited like an idiot. Now, it was time to go back.
In minutes, he’s back in his rickety old car, driving back home. He looks at the fuel gauge and it’s hitting zero. He slams the steering wheel. Not again. It’s just one of those unlucky days.
Aunty Shagufta is at Amna’s home, but so are thirty-five other aunties. There’s a kitty party in progress and I have certainly not been informed of it. I look at my shitty clothes, wondering why all of Lahore has decided to show up the day I am wearing my PJs and have oil on my head. I instantly want to hide.
I huddle to a corner where I spot Amna, “You didn’t mention you’re having a party,” I whisper, bowing my head to make sure no one sees me.
“I tried to tell you, but you were adamant on coming,” Amna says.
“Well, this is no party. It’s a soiree!” I speak a little too loudly this time and get angry glances from some of the ladies who are busy talking about their new cars, and new clothes.
“Don’t worry. They don’t really know you,” Amna nudges at me.
“Yeah, they just think I’m some homeless person.” I gulp. Then, I look around at the make-up laden aunties chatting, sipping their chai and gorging on vegan pakoras. Suddenly, I see one of them look my way, and sure enough, more stares follow.
I decide to be proactive. I quickly dash into Amna’s room to lather as much makeup as possible. Perhaps it could compensate for poor clothing taste.
“The make-up will make it worse,” Amna runs after me, and grabs my hands as I smack a lipstick on, “They’ll think you knew about the party and you deliberately didn’t dress up.”
“Oh yeah…that’s right.” I frown, then try to wipe off the lipstick. But everything seems to halt when a hear a familiar voice from outside the room.
“What are you doing here?” it’s the chaddi guy, and for the first time, my heart is going thumpity thump. He’s standing right outside Amna’s room, probably trying to escape the ruckus in the living area.
“I came here to see Amna… my friend,” I reply, trying my best to sound cool, “And you?”
“I’m here for Aunty Shagufta’s party. She’s my mother’s second cousin,” the chaddi guy answers. Then, he puts a finger to his lip, “but between you and me, I prefer this quiet corner…”
I smile at him, he smiles back but I can tell he’s a little nervous. We both stare at one another, and then he coughs, as if he’s trying to clear his throat, “So, do you always like making statements with your unconventional clothing?”
I’m not offended this time. Instead, I giggle and roll my eyes, “Well, I didn’t know half of the city was going to show up here. Just came for a quick drop-in to say hello.” It’s true though, I’m not usually going around to people’s homes in my pajamas.
“Well, you looked quite nice at that wedding a few days ago,” chaddi guy adds, probably because he couldn’t risk offending me this time. After all, he’s offended me before and look where that got him.
“Oh, yes, I do remember, you were at the wedding too….” I say, with a little bit of aloofness, pretending to be cool and giving no hints that I have been thinking of him this past week.
“You saw me?” chaddi guy seems surprised, slightly flushed this time.
“Yeah,” I respond.
“But you didn’t come to say hi?” he adds.
“I didn’t know I had to.” I say with a coy nod. Then, I arch my brows, “But I do know you came looking for me.”
This time, chaddi guy’s face is completely red, “So your friend told you I came looking for you?”
“Yes,” I answer.
Then, his eyes meet mine and a strange thing happens: I shy away from his gaze. I realize I am blushing as well, sensing the flush creep up my cheeks. There’s a weird feeling like butterflies in my stomach. My heart is racing, my breath short, and there is a rush of heat to my face. I’m starting to feel really warm now.
“So, you want to go for a walk?” he asks me, and I know it’s taken him some courage to ask. I want to say yes, but then go figure. He asks me to go for a walk! In Lahore? Where would we go without being morally policed?
But by now, he’s scratching his head. Confused, thinking over this proposition in retrospective. I guess we’re all novices, trying to figure out how to do this whole boy-meets-girl thing in a conservative setting. And he’s no good at it either.
Then I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Amna.
“Hey, you guys want to get out, go to a café maybe? I’ve asked mom and we all can leave if we want.”
She stares at both of us and can see our faces lighting up like Jashne-Azadi.
“Yes,” we both respond at the same time.
Amna smiles at me, a lop-sided smile. She can instantly tell that I’m grateful. And she can tell that chaddi guy’s grateful too given the ecstatic look in his face. Otherwise, without her, things were gonna get awkward between chaddi guy and me.
“Oh, chaddi guy,” I tap the guy, “I never asked, but what’s your name?”
“Amir. Yours?”
“Sara.” I flutter my eyelashes and flip my hair, not realizing what I am doing. Amir smiles at me, hypnotized somehow. His eyes are sparkling, curving at the edges with eagerness. They look like thin crescents upside down. I smile back at him, the butterflies getting stronger in my stomach. There is a strange fuzzy sensation rushing through my body, like a hearth warming a cold winter day. My heart’s a little lighter today, maybe a little less lonely.
And as we continue gazing into one another’s eyes dreamily, I know that neither of us are dreaming anymore.
A Glossary of some desi terms
[1] Awami is an Urdu word meaning, ‘of or for the common people.’
[2] Chaddi is Slang for underpants, shorts, or knickers
[3] Shaadi refers to a wedding
[4] Havelis means Neighbourhoods
[5] Motia — Jasmine
[6] Gilla— Complain, or grumble about someone
[7] Benazir Kulfa — a well-known South Asian dessert
