When my astrologer told me my social life would be picking up soon, I don’t think either of us knew what was coming. After gasping through a desert of self imposed social isolation for the last few months, I had begun to accumulate debt. Missed dinner, skipped parties, aborted lunches: I had to make up a lot of face time. So you can imagine how pleased I was to see some invitations beginning to trickle into my inbox. I logged each one absentmindedly into my phone mouthing “Ya, ya, of course, love it see you there!” and then immediately forgot they existed. There these invites waited, silently, wordlessly, until last Friday morning, when my phone attacked me up with aggressively enthusiastic reminders. Ding! “Meeting with contractor at 3 pm” Ding! “Art Opening at 5 pm” Ding! “Birthday dinner for M.” Ding! “Fashion show at 9 pm.”
I had barely made it out of bed when I got another text that a friend’s parents had died, and the funeral was to be held later that day at 5 pm. I nodded, trying to work out the logistics in my head. The water for my morning coffee had barely begun to simmer when yet another text arrived, saying that a school friend’s grandparent had died, and her funeral, too, was scheduled for 5 pm. I tried to imagine the day ahead calmly and with the confidence that they tell you adulthood brings. It took 30 seconds for me to crawl back into my bed and hide under the covers.
You’d think the vast distances between my various appointments would be the most trying thing about a day like that, but it’s not. The biggest question, as always, was one of style over substance: what can one wear that would be appropriate for a meeting, an art opening, a funeral, a birthday party, another funeral and a fashion show filled with aspiring teen bloggers and the childhood traumas that drive them? It’s like one of those math problems from grade school about row boats and trains, except sadder.
I went for a starched white shalwar kameez, that wonderfully versatile outfit that says “Yes I mean business” but can also say “I’m ready to negotiate”, “Happy birthday!”, “I’m sorry for your loss…”, “lovely paintings”, “May his soul reach heaven” as well as “I’m fashionable in an impossibly chic and carefree way”, depending on how much starch you’ve got going.
I hadn’t been to a janaaza in many years because they terrify me. The last one I remember was my own grandfather’s funeral. Ever since then, when someone we know had passed away, I would rather go to the quls. The easy answer is of course because quls are about sanitized memorials whereas there is usually a dead body at the janaaza, which makes me rather uneasy in a hyperventilating sort of way. But I had known this grandmother as a child, and she had called me beautiful and really that’s all it takes to guarantee “I love you for life” - so there I was.
The first funeral was crowded, so much so that by the time I inched through the crowds and paid my respects to the family, I was already late for my next funeral, which was all the way across town. Luckily the second was a qul, which is less time sensitive because, again, no body.
I pulled into the empty parking lot of Funeral number 2, no doubt sparsely attended because most of Lahore was still stuck at the first one. I condoled and made small talk before heading out to the art opening, where I arrived saying “I’m so sorry for your loss” to a bemused host before realizing this wasn’t another funeral. But art openings are easy: arrive, air kiss, air kiss, leave. The openings are never about the art anyway.
I left there on time to go to the birthday dinner but by this stage I was beginning to lose focus pretty badly, and all I wanted to do was crawl into an AC vent and hide. The dinner was with people who had not been to two funerals, so our energy levels were slightly different, but I made it through and with whatever fuel I had left I hurled myself towards Johar Town (which will never not be “A place far, far away form everything else”) to attend a friend’s fashion show. I’ve written about Fashion Week in this column before, with repercussions so venomous that now I’m reticent about broaching the subject again lest an errant high-heel come flying towards me like a ninja star. That said, I still don’t understand how the whole thing works. For one, they call it fashion week but it takes place over one weekend. Second, there were only two shows for the day I went, which meant all those arrangements (models, lighting, designing, invites, passes, guest-lists, bitchy looks, pantsuits) were made for a total of 10 minutes of event time. I imagine it would be easier to do the whole thing on one day, but then you can’t call it a week and from what I gathered in the few conversations I had there, that’s a deal breaker. It was fun in a stressful kind of way, mainly because we had to go through seven different checkpoints but also because everyone is so ‘on.’ You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing an outstretched arm trying to selfie a group of faces pouting hungrily, or a woman in a kaftan kicking her heel back as she is photographed hugging a pillar.
The last model had scarcely left the ramp before I sprinted to my car and home to bed, ready to call an end to the longest day in recent memory. But long as it was, last Friday taught me sober lessons. One: white works for all occasions. And two: you can die anytime, so live each day so fully that you remember that eternal rest isn’t so bad after all.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com
I had barely made it out of bed when I got another text that a friend’s parents had died, and the funeral was to be held later that day at 5 pm. I nodded, trying to work out the logistics in my head. The water for my morning coffee had barely begun to simmer when yet another text arrived, saying that a school friend’s grandparent had died, and her funeral, too, was scheduled for 5 pm. I tried to imagine the day ahead calmly and with the confidence that they tell you adulthood brings. It took 30 seconds for me to crawl back into my bed and hide under the covers.
You’d think the vast distances between my various appointments would be the most trying thing about a day like that, but it’s not. The biggest question, as always, was one of style over substance: what can one wear that would be appropriate for a meeting, an art opening, a funeral, a birthday party, another funeral and a fashion show filled with aspiring teen bloggers and the childhood traumas that drive them? It’s like one of those math problems from grade school about row boats and trains, except sadder.
I went for a starched white shalwar kameez, that wonderfully versatile outfit that says “Yes I mean business” but can also say “I’m ready to negotiate”, “Happy birthday!”, “I’m sorry for your loss…”, “lovely paintings”, “May his soul reach heaven” as well as “I’m fashionable in an impossibly chic and carefree way”, depending on how much starch you’ve got going.
I hadn’t been to a janaaza in many years because they terrify me. The last one I remember was my own grandfather’s funeral. Ever since then, when someone we know had passed away, I would rather go to the quls. The easy answer is of course because quls are about sanitized memorials whereas there is usually a dead body at the janaaza, which makes me rather uneasy in a hyperventilating sort of way. But I had known this grandmother as a child, and she had called me beautiful and really that’s all it takes to guarantee “I love you for life” - so there I was.
The first funeral was crowded, so much so that by the time I inched through the crowds and paid my respects to the family, I was already late for my next funeral, which was all the way across town. Luckily the second was a qul, which is less time sensitive because, again, no body.
The biggest question, as always, was one of style over substance. What can one wear that would be appropriate for a meeting, an art opening, a funeral, a birthday party, another funeral and a fashion show filled with aspiring teen bloggers and the childhood traumas that drive them?
I pulled into the empty parking lot of Funeral number 2, no doubt sparsely attended because most of Lahore was still stuck at the first one. I condoled and made small talk before heading out to the art opening, where I arrived saying “I’m so sorry for your loss” to a bemused host before realizing this wasn’t another funeral. But art openings are easy: arrive, air kiss, air kiss, leave. The openings are never about the art anyway.
I left there on time to go to the birthday dinner but by this stage I was beginning to lose focus pretty badly, and all I wanted to do was crawl into an AC vent and hide. The dinner was with people who had not been to two funerals, so our energy levels were slightly different, but I made it through and with whatever fuel I had left I hurled myself towards Johar Town (which will never not be “A place far, far away form everything else”) to attend a friend’s fashion show. I’ve written about Fashion Week in this column before, with repercussions so venomous that now I’m reticent about broaching the subject again lest an errant high-heel come flying towards me like a ninja star. That said, I still don’t understand how the whole thing works. For one, they call it fashion week but it takes place over one weekend. Second, there were only two shows for the day I went, which meant all those arrangements (models, lighting, designing, invites, passes, guest-lists, bitchy looks, pantsuits) were made for a total of 10 minutes of event time. I imagine it would be easier to do the whole thing on one day, but then you can’t call it a week and from what I gathered in the few conversations I had there, that’s a deal breaker. It was fun in a stressful kind of way, mainly because we had to go through seven different checkpoints but also because everyone is so ‘on.’ You couldn’t look anywhere without seeing an outstretched arm trying to selfie a group of faces pouting hungrily, or a woman in a kaftan kicking her heel back as she is photographed hugging a pillar.
The last model had scarcely left the ramp before I sprinted to my car and home to bed, ready to call an end to the longest day in recent memory. But long as it was, last Friday taught me sober lessons. One: white works for all occasions. And two: you can die anytime, so live each day so fully that you remember that eternal rest isn’t so bad after all.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com