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This is easy. No matter how bad my impostor syndrome is, I know what my dreams are.
‘I like the feeling when I’m on stage,’ I start, and I know I should launch into my generic answer – something about enjoying the attention, the production of it all – but I want to reciprocate Zayan’s honesty. ‘I like the safety of stepping into a character, being someone else on stage. I can’t be rejected if I’m not me. I can’t be overlooked. I can’t be stared at. I can’t be judged. I can live out another’s story that isn’t my own but feels like it. That’s why becoming an actress is the dream. I can’t see myself doing anything else and being happy.’
We’ve both answered our questions now, shared more than we probably intended, and naturally the conversation should end here. We should both hang up and go to sleep.
But we don’t. I stare out of the window, watching the stars glint in the sky, wondering what I should say.
The sound of Zayan’s voice startles me. So does the question.
‘Do you want to run lines?’
I press my teeth to my lower lip.
Say no. Go to sleep. Be friendly, nothing more.
‘Sure.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Desi Night is a fortnightly occurrence among my friends. This October, our flat is hosting it on the fourteenth. It’s an all-night event that involves all my London-dwelling friends from back home, even those who I didn’t know well when we were at Rocate High.
It’s a night that celebrates being brown. A night that makes us remember what home felt like. A night that brings us all together to remind us of where we came from.
‘You’re making gol gappay, right?’ Owais asks, a desperate pleading note in his voice. He stands beside Amal, helping her make garlic naans. ‘Last time you made channa chaat, and you promised!’
In response, Amal pulls out the board she prepared this morning; sitting all over it are hollow golden spheres of crispy, thin dough that will soon be filled with imili chutney pani – green in colour – and a mixture of dried chickpeas and fluffy potatoes. Alongside those are an assortment of samosas: fat ones filled with qeema and thin ones filled with cheese. For dessert, we’ve got your classic mithai: warm gulab jamun to be served with vanilla ice cream, kulfi in the freezer, jalebis soaked in sugar syrup, and this mango concoction Amal has been playing around with.
‘All right –’ Maha strides into the steaming kitchen, holding her phone in her hands – ‘I’ve got the next episode of Meray Paas Tum Ho ready to go. When’s everyone showing up?’
‘In ten minutes,’ I reply, nervously playing with the cuffs of my kameez. I always try to wear a different one for Desi Night – it’s why I had Ammi ship me a whole suitcase dedicated solely to winter kameezes. It makes me feel closer to home.
‘I’m excited to meet your new friends, Farah,’ Owais says, though his attention is on Amal. He’s handing her all the right things, orbiting round her like she’s the sun, just happy to be there with her. At one point, he simply leans against the stove and watches her with the softest look on his face.
‘Seriously, they should just get married now,’ Maha says, pulling up a chair to sit beside me. ‘I mean, I get that they’re waiting till they finish their degrees and are settled and all that, but come on. They’re so in love it actually hurts.’
‘They are,’ I agree, trying to ignore the twinge in my chest by turning my attention to Maha. ‘How about you, though?’
She shakes her head and then smirks. ‘Nope. No love stories here. But, speaking of love stories, I’m disappointed that a certain someone isn’t coming tonight.’
I laugh, albeit uncomfortably. While I did extend an invite to The Tragedies, as a way of continuing to build our patchwork friendship, I didn’t invite Zayan. Only because I was sure he’d despise this night in its entirety. A whole event based around Pakistani culture probably wouldn’t be something he’d enjoy when he’s already so torn up about his identity.
‘We’re not dating,’ I remind Maha. ‘I don’t date; you know that. I’m a long-term person.’
‘Mhm, sure. And who’s to say he isn’t? Everyone online believes you two are meant to last a lifetime.’
She’s not entirely wrong. I turned my Instagram from private to public, and all the comments underneath my photos were about Zayan – asking if I was with him right now. The public truly believes something is going on – so do my friends – and the thought of eventually telling them the truth makes my stomach knot with nerves. I really hope they don’t kill me.
The sound of the doorbell ringing shoves those worries away for later. I go to get it, knowing it’s probably The Tragedies.
‘Hey!’ Anushka says, throwing her arms round my neck to pull me into a strong hug. ‘Wow, I love your flat! It’s so cute!’
As Anushka walks in, followed by the rest, a pulse of awkwardness floods me. Whenever Amal or Maha bring home friends from their universities, it’s always effortless. They come in, they say hello and we all hang out together. I want it to be the same for me.
I breathe in deeply, press a smile on my lips and lead The Tragedies into the living room, where Maha, Amal and Owais have decided to congregate. They wait, and I realize I’m supposed to lead the introductions.
‘Oh, uh, guys, these are The Tragedies. This is David, Ben, Anushka and Nur.’
Nur offers a box in their general direction. ‘I brought over some mithai, as a thank-you for inviting us.’
