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As soon as I take one step forward, I’m jerked back by the fabric tightening round my neck. I make an awful, garbled noise, and then feel two large palms on my elbows, steadying me. I suck in a sharp breath, twisting violently out of Zayan’s hold. My gaze flicks down to see the end of my yellow dupatta has got twisted into his Rolex.
Any other time, I’d have laughed about how audaciously Bollywood this whole scene is; all we’d need is some romantic background music and we’d be straight out of a Shah Rukh Khan film. But right now? The sight of the yellow thread woven into the platinum strap of his watch makes my blood boil. I reach to pull his wrist forward and disentangle myself. I use my nails to pick at the knot, hoping to snap it so I can be free.
‘Seriously, I’m trying to apologize here.’ Zayan keeps his wrist limp while I work, offering zero help, taking this as his golden opportunity to speak to me. ‘Would you please listen? I need –’
The word ‘need’ makes my head snap upwards once more. His brown eyes widen as he takes in my anger. ‘Whatever you’re about to say isn’t the truth. You can stand here and try to feed me some sob story about how you love acting on stage, and how The Tragedies’ cause means so much to you, and how I misunderstood the conversation. Maybe you think you’ll flash those dimples, and I’ll ask, “What do you need?” But I won’t. Not after the way you so casually insulted what I love. Do you know how many people would kill to be on stage? And you just sat there, throwing away an opportunity all because it wasn’t Hollywood enough for you. Frankly, that’s enough for me to know that I will never, ever help out a guy like you.’
With those final words, I pull roughly away, letting a soft ripping noise of fabric slice through his silence. I don’t spare Zayan Amin a second glance as I finally walk off, the frayed yellow strands of my dupatta quivering in the wind.
CHAPTER SIX
Though I don’t consider myself to be a petty person, I will admit that reading negative reviews about Zayan’s latest TV series, while preparing my chai for the night, brings out a vicious sort of delight from within me.
If I was being entirely objective, I’d say some of these reviews are unfairly harsh, lamenting Zayan as the worst actor of our generation, ignoring the years of cinema he’s been a part of. He was the Hollywood favourite for so long – beyond being part of The Fairbanks, he was also a child actor in a dozen or so movies. Everyone wanted him on screen; everyone was excited to see what he’d do next.
But some of these reviews are asking the right questions: how did Zayan Amin get roped into doing a drama series that had no plot, no real substance and storylines that were heavily stereotyped – from the brown kid hating his religion to the brown girl taking her hijab off for the white boy? His once-loyal fanbase is now calling him a sell-out of his culture. He couldn’t have thought this was a good idea – was he blackmailed into it? Forced by his team?
Sources are saying he was desperately trying to get out of his contract before the show was cancelled. If I didn’t know exactly what Zayan Amin was like – an egotistical jerk – I would’ve been torn, as a fan. Do you support him? Cancel him? Wait for the truth to come out?
I set my phone down on the countertop, pushing those unanswerable questions away. I should take a break from my reading to do something productive. I’m alone in the flat – both Maha and Amal are out – so there should be no distractions, but still, I’m in no mood to get started on my university assignments.
Which means turning to the donation link instead.
After my disastrous meeting with Zayan two days ago, I ended up on a late-night Zoom call with The Tragedies, where we discussed how we were going to produce the play. I’d told them everything that happened with Zayan, and we mutually agreed we didn’t need a big-shot celebrity for our plan. We could fund this play on our own, through donations. And once we got the money, we could focus on holding auditions, getting a script and broadening the teams for sets and costumes.
But looking at the GoFundMe page I set up, my hope deflates like a balloon.
Here’s the thing about going viral: you’ve got to sustain the hype. A meme becomes popular because it’s reshared a million times, and it never truly fades because it’s used again and again in texts and replies. An unknown actor or actress becomes huge when their movie, play or TV show gains interest and when they maintain that interest by moving on to the next big project. No stopping.
But, two days later, The Tragedies are falling out of the limelight. This is the sour side of going viral. The conversation is already shifting. I switch to the email account we set up for The Tragedies, scroll down and see the emails we got yesterday from various news outlets – Buzzfeed, HuffPost and more. They’re all asking for interviews, and I make a mental note to discuss these requests with the group.
As if summoned by my thoughts, a message cuts through my scrolling.
Anushka
Check your Twitter feed RIGHT NOW, Farah.
What happened??
Anushka
NOW.
Anushka’s urgency causes a tight coil of nerves in my stomach. It takes me a second to log into Twitter, but once I’m in, I’m faced with a photo of me and Zayan.
Whoever took the photo captured the moment when I was attempting to disentangle myself from the strap of Zayan’s watch. Except it doesn’t look like that. It looks a lot more … intimate. It looks like we’re seconds away from hugging, our heads bent close, and there’s a flush on my cheeks that I’m sure is getting misconstrued as a blush. I scroll through the comments, alarm growing with everything I read.
@FallingForLove: OH MY GOSH!! I AM DYING!! LOOK AT HOW CUTE THEY ARE!!
@DesperatelySad: The next Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan!
@ZayanAminLovesMe: I prefer Laiba, but this is still a cute photo.
@CatTheVampire: I found her! It’s @FarahSheikh
Oh no, no, no. They’ve found me. Not that I could’ve stayed hidden. That tweet has more retweets and likes than the one I posted about The Tragedies. Nausea climbs up my throat when I realize Amal and Maha are going to see this too; they’re going to kill me for not telling them.
I read on. My heart is beating so hard I’m sure my neighbours can hear it through the walls.
