There comes a point in every person’s life when they start embodying the values that they once rejected. For example, after being mauled by a gang of black cats outside a local college campus, I started taking detours if they happened to cross my path. In another instance, after being mauled by a gang of ‘fair and lovely’ cats, I started believing in the powers of black magic. Not long ago, I thought such superstitions were dumb at best, but now I can’t afford to take the risk. Do you know what I’m saying? I’m saying that when life throws rocks at you, you can’t pretend that they’re balloons and that it’s your birthday party - at least not after your quarter-life crisis (assuming you’re unlucky enough to live to be 100).
My quarter-life crisis revolved around my first break-up. I realised my first love was over while I was destroying a McChicken meal, with cheese, upsize, with a Diet Coke and an extra side of Barbeque and Hot Mustard sauce. As I dug my teeth into cheesy, creamy, salty carbohydrate heaven, I knew that my true love wasn’t giving me the same satisfaction that this burger was. It was time to move on.
The author's response to a break-up
My true love wasn't giving me the same satisfaction as this burger. It was time to move on
***
On the third Tuesday of every month, I treat myself to the best food available in Lahore. It may not be real food per se, but it happens to be the most delicious nonetheless. On this particular Tuesday, the drive-through was very crowded, and I was forced to make my way inside the restaurant. Stinky kids crowded the establishment, which was full of middle class noise and laughter. I had covered my jeans with a dirty dupatta, found in the trunk of my car, to ensure that the male gaze was kept at bay. As I made my way to the counter to place my order, I bumped into him. Shorts, a dirty t-shirt, and a Rolex, waiting in line for a burger at this bright yellow hellhole - he was my kind of guy. The romance was perfect at first, but it soon collapsed as his love for fast food grew at an exponentially higher rate than his love for me. His health deteriorated and he began to embody all the characteristics of a local bum. After a few weeks of mourning the Cartier that I was about to forgo, I called it off.
***
When it comes to men, I’m afraid to admit that I can be very picky. First things first, you must be the bully, not the one who gets bullied. I mean seriously, sissy boys are no good. Yes, you can control them, but what’s the point of standing next to a boy who gets clobbered by his friends? No guts, no girlfriend. Secondly, you must work. Have a career. Be ambitious in life. There is nothing better than finding a man who wants to create an empire with you - one bigger than Mansha and Trump put together. Anyone who lives off of their parent’s money deserves to marry their couch. This brings me to another very significant criterion. You gotta be rich! Rich enough to buy me a Chanel or a pair of Louboutin’s when we go on our annual Euro trip with the kids.
Yes, I’m ‘shallow’. I admit it. There was a point in my life when I didn’t care for money, but that was way back before I was kicked out of the US after college for not being a citizen or finding a corporate job. Now, I live in a place where the rich reign supreme. In Pakistan, wealth will make you a celebrity. I mean, have you ever seen a middle class secretary’s late night extravaganza featured in a popular fashion magazine? Oh, and let’s not mention the value of culture and travel in this society. How can you talk about the cobbled streets of London if you’ve never ever been? Finally, fashion happens to be the biggest industry in this godforsaken place, and it’s expensive. And let’s not forget that the second you marry rich, your outfit becomes the talk of this town. Boys and girls, that’s power and that’s influence we’re talking about. So there you have it. I want power. I want the riches. If marriage doesn’t get me that, why not stay single and make it on my own?
P.S. I’ve given up on love. No point to a middle class arranged marriage!
The author won't settle for anything less than Louboutins
***
Staring down at the dirty narrow street in front of her, Romana hesitated. She had heard that Rahu Baba lived in this dingy hallway of an avenue in Anarkali, but this had been her first visit. She almost turned back, but the thought of some upper-middle class vixen stealing her son was too obscene. No way would her son marry someone who didn’t come from a super wealthy established family. After all, Romana belonged to a very select class. Entry was not easy. Kicking a dirty trash bag out of her way, Romana made her way down the street and up a battered spiral staircase to Rahu Baba’s den. Rahu Baba sat at the edge of a tiny room covered in framed verses of the Quran. He was wearing nothing but a robe and a massive beard, but he looked old and wise. His eyes were an intense red, although they were hardly open and seemed dazed in a trance. He also smelt of the earth, spoke with a slur, and constantly nodded throughout the meeting, giving Romana the reassurance that this man was the real deal. She related her problem to the man, who pulled out a tiny taweez (locket) from somewhere in his robe and handed it to her. “Hide this in his room, and make him fat”, he said. “The vixen will disappear!” As she exited Anarkali and headed back to the city in her made-for-dirty-errands-Corolla, Romana felt relieved. Her son might get a little sick, but it was worth it.
