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CHAPTER TWELVE
Ten minutes before our first rehearsal with the whole cast, my mother calls to scold me.
‘Paari!’ Ammi’s voice is loud on the other end.
‘Ammi?’ I say, more than a little confused. I’m standing outside the Limelight’s doors, watching as cast members come in, waiting for The Tragedies to show up. ‘Is everything OK –?’
‘I got a call from Safiya Aunty,’ Ammi interrupts, her tone anything but amused, ‘saying that you have a boyfriend.’
My initial response is to curl up into a ball and bleach from my mind the fact that my mother just said the word ‘boyfriend’ to me. An extreme response for some, but Ammi and I don’t talk about boys. I wasn’t allowed to date growing up, and once I turned eighteen I was told that if I felt I was ready to be in a relationship, it would have to be for the long term. It was the only time my parents were truly strict about anything, and it meant that I grew up envisioning love as something that lasted a lifetime. It was a person you wanted to spend forever with. Not a fling or a hook-up or a moment of attraction. I have yet to find that person – which suits me, because I’m still young and, more importantly, my dreams of the stage are my priority.
My second response is to think, Really, Safiya Aunty? I thought leaving Karachi meant that I was free from the network of Pakistani mothers who somehow always knew everything and anything that was going on.
‘Ammi, I – what? Why would she say that?’ I ask, pressing the cold screen of my phone to my cheek.
‘She sent me a photo of you with this boy, at some cafe or something,’ Ammi replies. In the background, I hear the familiar shrieks of my younger cousins. Every Saturday, back home, my dad’s side of the family comes to visit. In my heart I feel pangs of a sudden longing for my life before all of this – for tiny sticky fingers holding my hand, for Ammi’s home-made samosas, for Abu’s long-winded stories about his day.
‘Some actor,’ Ammi adds, like we don’t both know who Zayan Amin is.
‘Zayan Amin,’ I offer. ‘And we’re just friends, Ammi. I promise. Safiya Aunty is exaggerating; that photo she saw was taken out of context. We’re working on this play together –’
‘Don’t fall in love with him,’ Ammi interrupts, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Shock reverberates through my body, and my jaw drops.
Did Ammi just talk to me about falling in love?
‘I know he’s very handsome, very talented, but he’s a star. He will be photographed a great deal. And his reputation can survive a scandal. Yours cannot.’
Her words are wrapped in barbed wire, not meant to pierce but to protect. She doesn’t let any of her own opinion bleed into what she’s saying – it’s not about whether she thinks it’s right; instead, her explanation is a fact.
‘If you go out in public and get pictured doing certain things with a boy, no one will condemn him for it,’ she explains. ‘Women are held to a different standard. An unfair standard, but it is there nonetheless. Your father and I want to see you succeed, Paari. To buy tickets and watch you in the cinema. Do not squander that for a boy. Do not let him take advantage of you. Boys like this, with fast lives, will spend minutes with a girl – and then, the second they must commit, they turn away. And all anyone will talk about is how it’s your fault, Paari. Even though we know it’s not.’
A part of me wants to argue back, to say it’s not my job to uphold all of Pakistan’s values on my shoulders. It’s unfair that Pakistani women are held to a higher moral standard than men; it’s unfair that men can do what they please but women who exhibit the same behaviour are condemned.
As the argument builds within me, Zayan’s words from Bubble-Me-Mine whisper in my thoughts.
Come to terms with the idea of sacrificing something you love for what you want.
As much as I want to rebel against what Ammi has said, maybe this is my sacrifice. Maybe I have to bear this cultural responsibility if I want my dreams to come true.
‘You don’t have to worry, Ammi,’ I finally say, hoping to calm her nerves. I think of the way Zayan was adamant about not getting into an ‘actual relationship’ and falling in love again. How his laser focus was on his career and nothing else. ‘Nothing will happen between Zayan and me. I want someone who wants to be with me forever, when I’m ready for it.’
‘I trust you, Paari. I always have,’ she says in the end, before one of my cousins starts demanding her attention. She hangs up after that, with instructions for at least a dozen different things for me to do: be safe, be careful, be wary.
As soon as her voice disappears, I drop my phone from my cheek to breathe in deeply as if it will help calm my racing heart. I can’t believe my mother thought Zayan and I were actually a couple. Just how realistic did our photos look?
First, I look at the photo Ammi was most likely sent – the one of us outside the boba cafe. To someone else, we probably look like we’re two people getting to know one another and enjoying each other’s company. No one could probably tell, but I can see the slight strain to our smiles.
But when I end up scrolling further in my camera roll, I land on the photo-shoot pictures, and it’s undeniable. We do look good together. Jazz has captured the best moments. In one of them, I’m looking up at Zayan and my expression is shy and yearning – a look I didn’t know my face could do – and Zayan has this wide, incredible smile on his lips, like he’s besotted.
If this is what he looks like when he’s faking being in love, what does he look like when he’s actually in love? Is it still these megawatt smiles, or is it softer – more gentle, blushing grins? Can he even blush?
‘Farah?’ Warmth burns across my own cheeks when Zayan comes into view, taking the steps to the stage door. He’s bundled up in a long blue Sherlock Holmes-style coat and a comfortable-looking burgundy sweater. His gaze instantly roams across my face in a growingly familiar way. ‘You must’ve been thinking of something pretty great; you didn’t hear me call your name before.’
I struggle for a reply – I can hardly tell him I was wondering what he looked like when he was in love – and Zayan smirks at my floundering.
‘You’re blushing,’ he notes, his voice teasing. ‘Were you thinking of me?’
