Face

I keep going back to it. That one episode where she goes crazy and slits her wrist. I can't seem to get that one image out of my mind. Of her sitting on the bathroom floor with her back against the wall. Her mascara smudged across her almost perfect porcelain cheeks and her hand resting lifelessly on the tiles with blood oozing out of her wrist.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. There's no mascara smudged across my face. No blood oozing out of my wrist. Just a regular face. Rough dark skin dotted with a couple of pimples. Glasses that don't really stand out and hair that seems to fall in place without actually being combed. I don't consider myself ugly. It's just that this face doesn't seem to represent the fucked up I feel in my head. It doesn't act out the crazy it's supposed to. Not the way the girl's in the TV show does. My face is slightly square shaped. Stable. Simple. Normal. But I feel anything but normal.

An old friend.

He calls every now and then. Not on a daily basis like he used to but he calls. Whenever he finds out something interesting about an old common friend or receives another pathetic CIE result sheet, my number is the first he dials. I haven’t seen him in two years but I doubt he looks any different. He certainly doesn't sound any different and the topics that interest him haven’t changed in the slightest. I remember him being my best friend growing up. I recall discussing whether or not it was haram to lick a woman’s breasts, passing judgement on the couple who would make out in the school’s back shed and calling the teacher with a big bottom a whore. I remember ridiculing this boy who was slightly taller and thinner than us and giving him the nickname ‘Ostrich.’

I understood that I was being offensive but it seemed a small price to pay in order to be a member of his clique. I always feared not having friends. I worried that if I didn't have any friends, people would feel free to point out my idiosyncrasies and I would become the ridiculed ‘Ostrich.’ I feared everyone noticing exactly how terrible a cricket player I was, the way my arm gestures resembled those of a woman and more than anything, I feared people being able to somehow figure out that I was sexually attracted to men and not women. So I clung onto this clique of boys that I secretly hated because as long as I was one of them, I was safe.

Although I had the support of these supposed friends, I never quite enjoyed their company and felt as though they only saw the image I tried so very hard to portray. I wasn't able to talk as openly as I wished and I would behave in a manner that was different from my usual demeanour  I eventually drew the courage to venture out to make new friends and once I had, I saw no need of remaining part of this clique. He was, undoubtedly, the kindest of this group of boys. He participated in their ridiculous conundrums but one could always notice his reluctance in doing so. I remained in close contact with him and avoided every other member of the clique for this very reason.

Every time I talk to him, I'm reminded of just how far I've come. From the boy who acted like his friends did in order to avoid being ridiculed to the boy who feels completely comfortable in his own skin and quotes Mean Girls where appropriate. He’s still part of that group of friends. He still discusses whether or not it is haram to lick a woman’s breasts, he still judges the couple that makes out in his university’s back shed and still calls the teacher with the larger bottom a whore.

He called the other day and told me ‘People at my university are so stupid; this one kid said that Khyber Pakhsomething was a province.’ He wouldn't believe me when I told him that Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa was, in fact, a province and I didn't bother convincing him. I know I can never really connect with him but as long as he keeps calling, I will continue answering because it’s good to know that all those years ago, in the midst of great uncertainties, I made one good decision; the decision to run as far away from such frustrating stupidity. Maybe I can make another one now.

i.

He looked repulsive and I'd only agreed to sleep with him because he had promised weed. He sat by me, recounting his previous sexual encounters, commending the physical characteristics of the people he had slept with, as if they were his trophies. He lacked all discretion, he revealed, with pride, their names and even their roles in bed. Homosexuals in Pakistan usually abide by a strict code of discretion but today was all about breaking rules so I ignored his crudeness. I kept silent, nodding away, pretending to be interested in what he was saying but hoping he would just take out his stash of weed.

After around twenty anxious minutes he pulled out a plastic bag from his shoe containing what looked like crushed brown autumn leaves. I watched intently as he yanked the filter out of a cigarette and rolled the crushed brown leaves into a piece of paper. He continued speaking but my eyes were fixated on the joint in his hand. He lit it up, sat back in his seat and began to smoke it. After a couple of huffs he handed it to me.

I held it to my lips and inhaled. It felt like any other cigarette and I was almost disappointed by it's lack of effect. I continued smoking, until only the filter remained between my fingers. I slouched back on the sofa and waited for the weed to kick in. I started feeling heavy. I could feel the blood rush through my veins. The furniture in the room began dancing and his voice became this inaudible echoing sound. He offered me chalia saying something about my sugar level. I took it from his hand and dropped it to the ground.

'Where is the wash-room?' I demanded.

'Over there,' he said pointing somewhere, I wasn't quite sure where. I got up and, with immense confusion, found the bathroom. I'd imagined that I'd simply drop my face into the commode and start vomiting but the commode was the Indian kind (a hole in the ground) and my entire body fell to the ground as I tried to release the contents of my stomach. I suddenly realized how empty my stomach was. I hadn't eaten since last night and only managed to make loud puking noises; no puke. He walked into the bathroom and told me to go lie down in his room and in my state of mind I was capable of doing nothing but complying with his suggestions.

I noticed him coming into the room and closing the door behind him. He laid down on top of me pressing his lips against mine. I wasn't aroused but I instinctively pretended to be. I realized how distant I was from him and from everyone else I've slept with. I couldn't even remember his name; I just knew that I didn't really like him. I was in no mood of doing anything sexual and my honest weed induced self felt no shame in telling him this. I knew that we'd agreed to have sex and that the honourable thing to do would be to simply go through with it but my brain capacity had diminished and I felt like a little child. Little children don't pretend to enjoy things they don't enjoy.

He insisted that I'd enjoy myself once he shoves his penis up my ass. He'd told me earlier that he had a condom in his apartment but ignored me now when I told him to put it on. I pushed him away from me and assured him that he wouldn't get to fuck me today. He compromised and a hand-job later, he offered to drop me to a rikshaw.

I knew that I was in no state to go out in public but wanted to be as far away from this man as possible. I sat up and regained some of my sanity. The furniture still danced but I forced myself to focus solely on the task at hand; I had to get away from here.

Waiting.

I no longer have passion, ambition or goals. I was skeptical about my college education before enrolling but part of me still hoped that I would find some meaning, some purpose in the bound stacks of paper we call course packs, some direction from the teachers who hold promise in the eyes of the other freshman or some divine sense of spirituality in the various forms of drugs college students experiment with. 

This is not to say that I've been completely disinterested in everything college has to offer. In fact, I've spent the last four months forcing a smile onto my face and speaking in an excited tone, two octaves above normal.  I've attended lectures from supposedly influential speakers and have pretended to have been profoundly impacted by what they've had to say. 

Everyone says that I should be grateful for what I've been given and I've pretended to be, hoping that this fake façade of gratitude turns into reality. I've surrounded myself with friends who have adopted a particular façade in order to please whoever they hope to please to the extent that they can't differentiate themselves from the image they put up for the world. 

I desperately wish to be one of them but I've accepted that that isn't possible for me. I really don't know why I keep trying. Waiting for something I know will never come. 

Lies

The touch of his hand across my back makes me quiver but I don't stop him. I ignore the discomfort he causes me. He presses his lips against mine and compliments my supposedly beautiful eyes. 'What a cliché thing to say,' I wonder. I, once again, conceal this thought and pull him closer towards me resolute upon 'getting right to the point.' He doesn't seem to share my sentiments and insists upon holding me in his arms as he stares into my face. I can't help but feel awkward. He opens his mouth to speak and in order to avoid conversation I slide my head down to his pelvis and start blowing him.

I end up spending the night because he has an AC and a nice big bed and I'm too stoned to find a rikshaw to take me back to campus. In the morning he asks if I'll come visit him again and I nod my head.

When I get back to campus, I'm met with the expected inquiries of my friends 'Where have you been?'

I reply calmly 'I spent the night at a relatives.'

They believe me.

The Army of Insomniacs.

I can’t sleep again. My mind is racing from place to place, person to person, emotion to emotion, thought to thought.

A thought about how moving to Lahore was supposed to represent a change of my entire state of being is followed by a realization that it changes absolutely nothing. My physical location will have no impact on my brain and after all, it is my brain that invokes all thoughts. My mind is a wanderer and will continue to wander no matter where I go. I will continue to question. My ‘state’ will always be that of uncertainty because I really don’t have the faith to accept what I’ve been told.

But what is ‘faith?’ Belief based on illogic? And what is ‘belief?’ How can one accept principles without a shadow of a doubt? There is uncertainty everywhere. Be it the uncertainty principle of tiny particles that we were taught in physics class but never quite understood or the somewhat random, uncertain movements of the celestial bodies above. There are no certain laws governing, just theories. Theories which are widely accepted and then disproved. The constantly changing perceptions of what is ‘moral’ and what is ‘immoral.’ It’s all so random, temporary and pointless.

The thought of death scares me. I can’t fathom feeling nothing, lying in the soil, unconscious. What does ‘unconsciousness’ feel like? I’m told it feels like nothing but how can one not feel? Perhaps that’s something I cannot imagine and that frustrates me. I flip and flop in my bed cursing my lack of faith. Maybe if I believed, that by performing certain acts, I’d go to heaven once I died where everything would be perfect, I’d be able to sleep in peace. But how can forever ever be perfect? I wonder if a believer lying in another bed also flips and flops, cursing his faith. His frustrations stemming from the perceived immortality of his soul and mine from my perceived lack of one.

I eventually give up trying to sleep and pull the laptop from my side table onto my chest. The class valedictorian is online. She asks me for advice which isn’t surprising because many of my friends come to me for advice when they want to be told to ‘fuck it, fuck everything.’ That’s the role I play. I’ve learnt that in order for us to be happy we must free ourselves from the clutches of society’s judgment and I'm quick in passing this little piece of wisdom around. But if we ‘fuck everything,' if we ‘free ourselves’ and ‘let go,’as I say we should, what will we hold onto?

Nothing.

I wonder if this is the conclusion the valedictorian will reach after our discussion. She might. Despite being the daughter that every parent dreams of, the paragon of perfection in the eyes of so many of her teachers, she is just like me. And so is the believer who flips and flops in his bed. They, like me, are part of the army of insomniacs, of thinkers whose minds race from place to place, person to person, emotion to emotion, thought to thought. 

I'm Not Sorry.

You would show up at my doorstep in your small flimsy Suzuki Alto within an hour of me calling you. We'd meet at a time of my convenience, even if it meant you having to cancel other engagements. You would drive, trying to engage in a conversation, while I started out the window barely listening to what you had to say. I've never been good at small talk but with you, I'd given it up all together. I had accepted that you would not have anything interesting to say and you never did. You spoke about topics I couldn't care less about. You were contented with your meager life and were unable to question concepts that had been drilled into your brain.

We'd arrive at your house and head straight for your room, lock the door shut and our dance would begin. I'd lay on the bed with you on top of me. I'd stare deep into your light brown eyes as I rubbed the fair skin of your broad jaw with my fingers. You'd grab onto the back of my neck and press your lips against mine. Your tong would explore the corners of my body as I made soft cries of pleasure. No hint of our relationship could be known to the world outside but within the four walls of your room, our bodies tangled up around one another in unabashed lust and passion.

After having relieved ourselves sexually, we'd clean up and you'd drive me back home in silence with a satisfied grin across my face. I had accepted that the sole purpose of our meetings was the fulfillment of our carnal desires. I had no interest in you other than your sweltering hot body. I imagined you felt the same way but was shocked to learn otherwise.

When, after one of our regular sessions of passionate sex, you told me you loved me, I was in complete shock. 'How could you have fallen in love with me when we didn't even talk,' I wondered. I looked at your face and felt absolutely nothing. I told you so and went home in a rickshaw. We haven't talked since. For two years, I have felt like a terrible person for not being able to reciprocate your love. I felt heartless and insensitive for not being able to feel what you had felt.  Last month, my cell phone beeped to removed all of my guilt. On Shab-e-Barat, you sent me the typical 'forgive me, for I have sinned' text message and reminded me just why I couldn't love you.

You were typical. You were one of them. One of the members of society. There was no way you could understand the qualms of an outsider like me and no way I could abide by your concepts of propriety and decency. I needed my freedom whilst you'd learned to live without it.

I no longer feel sorry for not loving you. You just weren't right for me and I wasn't right for you. I'm glad I stormed out that day because if I hadn't, I would have stormed out the next day.