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‘Farah!’
The Tragedies and I turn in unison to the sound of Lacey calling out for me. I excuse myself and meet her halfway, allowing her to grip my arm and lead me to a lone table on the other side of the pub.
‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ Lacey says, and I have to bend closer to hear her properly. Her cheeks are flushed red with excitement, and there’s a hungry look in her eyes. ‘I have so much to tell you. Everyone’s buzzing about you and Zayan. And, look, I’ve seen how you two look at one another. This has to be real. And even if it isn’t, it is a goldmine. We’ve got to keep it going. You two could do movies as a couple; you could follow Zayan’s lead in this industry. I want to offer you representation.’
My heart soars, shock forcing my jaw to drop slightly. Lacey chuckles lightly, taking a long sip of her drink, waiting for my reply. The words Yes, let me sign the contract right now are on the tip of my tongue, but surprisingly I find a sense of hesitancy holding me back.
‘Could … I need a minute to breathe,’ I tell Lacey, and her excitement dims by a fraction.
‘Yes, of course. Of course. I’m sure this is all so overwhelming for you,’ she says finally, giving me a warm smile. I return it, unable to shake the tentativeness that’s growing through my body.
I leave Lacey, making my way out of the pub, soaking in the cool night air. I’m decked in the kameez and jeans I had on before the play started; my make-up is still Heer’s, but I’ve wiped off the tear-tracks I had sliding down from the final scene. The sky is empty, starless for once, with only greyish-blue clouds slicing through.
Rather than standing and analysing my thoughts about the offer, I allow myself to sink into a small temptation. I slide out my phone to read what people have been saying about the play.
@CriticCentral: Just finished watching Heer Ranjha by @TheTragedies. It was total trash.
Not pulling their punches, I see.
@Mack86: Heer Ranjha was so amazing! Cried my eyes out.
@BismaQasim: Farah Sheikh delivers a stunning performance as Heer, stealing our hearts with every line and proving to every Pakistani girl out there that we can be the leads of our own destinies. And that final scene! I was mesmerized.
I close my phone and think of that final scene. The memory of it erupting in my mind through fragmented feelings. The swish of my midnight-blue lehenga against my ankles, the warmth of the spotlight skittering across my skin, the emotion vibrating through the silence of the theatre. My favourite moments on stage tonight were when I was entirely encased in Heer – when it was just me and her intertwined as one.
Voices cut through my memory, pulling me back to this reality.
‘She was great.’ I turn to see Bashir Junaid, a renowned theatre critic, leaning against the brick wall of the pub, talking to a companion whose face is shadowed by darkness.
Shock pulses through my arteries. I thought most of the industry officials had left after the play – Zayan told me they’d probably reach out through Lacey if they had anything they wanted to say.
Neither of the two men know I’m standing there. Maybe they can’t recognize me now that I’m shrouded by the night.
‘I loved her as Heer. She’s got talent,’ Bashir Junaid says.
My heart swells up to three times its size.
‘I was a bit surprised,’ his companion says.
‘Surprised?’
‘Well, I guess I’d always thought of her as “Zayan Amin’s latest love”. But she stole the show. He felt like an afterthought, truly.’
The two men talk for a few more moments about something before leaving. I stay outside, facing the Limelight Theatre. I feel this odd sense of disappointment and delight: joy because my performance was recognized by a renowned critic; disappointment about the critique of Zayan’s performance, and because before this play debuted I was nothing more than the girl on Zayan Amin’s arm.
And I suppose the question that keeps pulsing in my head is: can I have both – my own fame and my love?
‘Farah?’
Zayan’s presence is hard to ignore, and I’m forced to turn round. I’m not ready for the smile curling at the corners of his lips, the fond look in his eyes or his outfit. The light-sage-coloured sherwani, embroidered in gold, fits him like a glove. I notice, at the end of my slow perusal of how good he looks, that he’s holding a medium-sized rectangular box in his hands.
‘You like?’ he asks, and I step closer to him.
‘I do. You look very Pakistani,’ I say, avoiding his eyes. My head is still wrestling with that question. Can I have both – my own fame and my love?
‘I’m relearning how to be proud of who I am. I’ve decided that I no longer want to be Hollywood’s version of Pakistani; I want to be my own version. No more muting myself for someone else,’ he says softly, ducking his head so our gazes clash. ‘I have to tell you something.’
‘Famous last words.’
