Memories…

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Digging through the old emails as one does when one is overwhelmed with nostalgia and home sickness, one finds something that must be shared with everyone. For me. it’s this article I wrote for my school’s yearbook detailing the amazing “Slam Night” me and my fellow society heads held at my old school.

       IMAGINE ALL THE PEOPLE..ON STAGE

On 18th February’ 2016, Lyceum prepared the stage, laid out the comfy daris and tweaked the spotlight one last time which shone like a huge lighthouse, calling all poetry lovers, dreamers and creators, towards it. Lyceum was ready to host its Annual Slam Night for the fifth time, with even more fervor and creativity than before.

Like all journeys, this was not an easy one to make. We started out with no preparation, no written pieces and no courage to go out on stage, shed all our defenses and truly express ourselves. Once we agreed to make “Imagine” the theme of this event, everyone was hastened to write their poems as quickly as possible. It was interesting to see how each participant had such a unique way of interpreting and analyzing the word: “Imagine”. For some it meant diving down into their wild imagination and refusing to come out while for others it meant hoping and dreaming of a world that was attainable yet faraway. The possibilities were endless. Once those scribbled lines turned into actual full length poems, the rehearsals began.

If you passed by Room 5 from 2 to 4 pm you could hear the sounds of the participants repeating the lines of their poems over and over and over again. We were not off the hook by simply reading out the poem to our mentor, Miss Nida Khan. Each line, each word, each syllable had to be approved and perfected by her. Amidst those grueling rehearsals, we were not short of laughs or support from one another. Together we helped boost each other’s new found confidence and at one point in our rehearsals, Miss Nida even asked all of us to scream as loud as we could to test ourselves and bid farewell to our insecurities and fears.

All of this led us to the big day. The stage was ready and for ours to conquer. As the seats and the daris filled up, all the participants were seated next to the stage, tapping their feet, biting their nails nervously, awaiting their turn. The judges consisted of Ilsa Rashid, Sana Rizwan Gondal and Yousaf Rehman all of whom are experienced slam poets.

Once everyone got seated, the dynamic duo of Tehreem Tufail and Suniya Umar Khan as hosts commenced the long awaited Slam Night with Mrs. Ahmad’s heartwarming opening speech. The air was filled with the smell of steaming popcorn being passed around and the sounds of excited spectators and jittery participants. The program consisted of 20 participants, 6 of whom were doing group pieces. As the performances progressed, the hosts kept the excitement alive with their hilarious and witty introductions of each participant for example Zubair Siddiqui was introduced as being confusing and abstract just like the poem he wrote after which Zubair clarified to everyone that his poem was in fact about Frootloops.

With one impressive performance after the other it was time for the judges to deliberate over the results.  To ease out this awkward pause the stage was open for other performances, which included an entertaining surprise performance by the LyProv group which left the crowd laughing until everyone’s stomachs hurt. The judges flaunted their slam poetry skills and reminded us all why they are the ones judging the event.

After a long deliberation, the judges made their way to the stage to announce the winners. The conflicted looks on their faces proved that the decision was not easy as everyone’s performance that night won our hearts; everyone had a powerful message which dominated our minds and rocked us to our core. Following a quick imaginary drum roll, Raamish Amir won third place for his intense poem compelling us imagine a world where divisions don’t exist. On second place stood Hiba Nauman tied with Rahma Uneeb. Hiba’s performance (featuring Her Hoodie) was about her tendency to let imagination restrict her rather than free her. Rahma’s performance however let imagination be the key towards a tolerant society where everyone can imagine another’s pain.

The first place was decided on the basis of which performance would the judges like to see again and it turned out Hamza and Emaan’s performance was the one after all. Clad in black and white, Hamza and Emaan represented two conflicting viewpoints, that of a pessimist and an optimist. Their riveting performance was adored by everyone.

To wrap up this beautiful night Miss Nida, aided with Shehryar Ali Khan’s acoustic cover of “Imagine” by John Lennon, performed her piece. The entire crowd swooned to her voice as she made us realize how music, beat, rhyme and rhythm could really “heal the world”, just as she was healing ours.

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The Monster

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Located far from the nucleus of Pakistan and surrounded by sharp jagged peaks, the quaint little city of Quetta can often turn into a boiling pot of stories and rumors that would simmer and quickly bubble and push their way through every house or corner shop or tandoor there was in the city.

A rumor had bubbled its way through the top once again. A peculiar set of neighbors had moved into the house at the end of a street in Satellite Town. They were a large family consisting of uncles, aunts, grandparents, grandchildren, a brood of chickens and even a battered old stray dog that sat outside their house blinking its remaining eye. They had migrated from Afghanistan a long time ago during the war and had to shift from their old house, the reason was of course never disclosed. There were lots of other unanswered questions that the neighborhood was met with upon their arrival and the most obvious and irksome from the lot was why did they seemed so ‘peculiar’ at all? They functioned like a normal family would and had mundane routines and affairs of daily life. Why were the parents then compelled to tell their children to stay away from the house at the end of the street?

The children gathered one day near the town’s abandoned tube well to empty their pockets with all the information they had gathered by eavesdropping on the elders and together made sense of what they had.

“I heard they have a caged jinn in their house!” said one boy, his eyes twinkling with wonder and excitement.

“Jinns don’t exist idiot!” refuted the girl with brown pigtails.

“I heard there’s a woman inside who is possessed by a jinn”, a meek boy offered another explanation.

“She is my mother!” a shaky voice erupted behind them.

A chubby girl of twelve or thirteen stood gripping a handful of rocks in her pudgy fingers. Her clothes were marked with ancient grease and dirt. Her hair was cut short and unevenly, jutting out at various places from her scalp, looking like a cheap old wig.

“Your mother is a freak then”, the girl with the brown pigtails sneered.

“She’s not..”

“I heard she eats little children for dinner!” a boy spat out with disgust.

Hot angry tears streamed down the girl’s grimy face. “She does not eat kids, she’s my mother” she screamed as her fist shook with rage.

“Why is she so fat then huh?” the boy replied.

“You take that back!” she shouted, quivering and shaking like a distressed insect.

“Are you going eat us too like your mom?”

She snapped and hurled the rocks towards the children who spread out screaming at the top of their lungs. Doors were opened letting out concerned parents comforting their children, leaving the lonesome little girl crying on the street.

As days went by the rumors amongst the children grew wilder and wilder until one day, the famed “monster” or “witch” or (according to one firm believer) the “alien” stepped outside of the house at the end of the street.

Children scampered off in some corner or secret hiding place like little mice, fearful and strangely excited to finally view the center of attention, in flesh and blood.

She was draped and almost concealed in a black chador. Thick lumps of fat were distributed unevenly all over her body, merging down to her belly. Her face was covered partially with the chador revealing only a single eye that resembled a fly trapped in kneaded dough and a cheek with fat dangling down to her chin. Her gargantuan weight hindered her from walking in one even motion, she swayed from side to side like a deserted hollow ship. With each step a tinkling of bells resounded from her ankles, a similar tinkle one would hear when you lead a cow for slaughter.

She seemed to be mumbling something under her breath rapidly. Two males accompanied her with downcast eyes, grabbing her each of her mammoth arms.

The children stayed hidden, careful not to be spotted by her wakeful eye.

It took her what seemed like a decade to get to the car parked at the edge of the street. Whispers trailed behind her:

“Where was she going?”

“Is this the last time we’re seeing her?”

Ever since her appearance, the theories about her whirled out of control. Some adamantly claimed she had murdered some girls with her bare hands, and was kept chained and locked insider her house. Some proposed she was crazy and ought to be locked away in a mental institution.

The children not only theorized but were eager to experiment and act further.

“The next time she comes out I’m going to hit her with my slingshot”, proudly boasted one boy.

“No we should first uncover the other side of her face, who knows what she could be hiding underneath there?” the girl with the brown pigtails suggested.

“Yeah she could be a half cyborg! Like in that Terminator movie”, the meek boy exclaimed.

“Oh please, she’s nothing but a psycho! I suggest we call the police, they would know what to do with her!”

Their plotting and scheming ensued for hours until the call of prayers through the trees and the mountains. They retired back to their homes, hoping to catch the glimpse of the woman inside the house.

 

News of her death reached them during breakfast time. “She had passed away in her sleep, peacefully”, they said. Everyone was expected to be there for her funeral. How had she died? No one knew for sure, but that didn’t prevent them from concocting fresh theories. Some claimed vociferously that the entire family had killed her to put an end to the shame she had brought over them. Some said it was merely God’s punishment.

The children were wearing fresh clean clothes as they went inside the house at the end of the street.

“I’m scared” the meek boy uttered.

“She’s dead she can’t hurt anyone, idiot” the girl with the brown pigtails responded.

They held hands as they were led to a courtyard where the funeral processions were being held. Her corpse was laid in the middle of the courtyard but was surrounded by a crowd. Everyone was desperate to catch a final glimpse of her, to finally confirm the whirling theories inside their minds.

The children craned their necks to get a better view but failed. They spotted the little girl who had thrown stones at them, crying in a corner; snot, dirt and tears caking her face.

“Let’s go closer” the kids decided.

They pushed through the crowd, stepped people’s feet to make them move quickly and finally laid eyes on the corpse they were dying to see.

And as they laid their eyes on her, they realized she wasn’t a monster, a witch, an alien or even a cyborg, she was just a woman.

Her pale cold skin was the only thing that seemed unnatural to them. As she lay peacefully with her eyes shut, clad in white shalwar kameez and a pair of anklets clasping her frail ankles she looked very harmless and almost a victim in a long enduring battle.

They stared down at her and prayed for the monster that they had created.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How do I say this?

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Right now in some corner of this messed up world that should have stayed in the cosmic laboratory’s toxic waste bin, there is some celebrity or some “important” figure advising the general public to “seek help” if one feels depressed or anxious or suicidal etc etc but what they fail to see or realize that this first step is always the hardest.

Now I am certainly not a mental health professional (I did take Psychology in A Level though but I forgot 90% of everything after my last exam)  but I am aware of the severe stigma surrounding mental health that still hasn’t died away and it’s what intimidates the sufferers the most.

Speaking from experience, asking for help entailed many dreaded thoughts. It seemed like I was finally accepting my defeat in a long fought battle and for a person who has no real friends but ironically a very huge ego, it was almost like a death sentence to me. How could I confess to people that my infantile self wouldn’t let me function like a normal adult? That I was up all night watching random YouTube videos to somehow distract myself from the rapid thumping of my heart ringing in my ears like an awful but catchy jingle? How can I say all of that without feeling inferior and embarrassed?

It takes great courage and humility to bare your weaknesses, your scars to someone and simply say: “I need help”.

 

 

 

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In Harry Potter’s fifth book, we were introduced to a creature known as a “Thestral”. A winged horse with a grotesque view of its skeleton poking out of its flesh was not the only thing which made it appear so morbid. It was learning the fact that a thestral can only be visible to those who had witnessed a death. This was just one of the many techniques used by J.K Rowling to tie the fifth book with the fourth book, to make us realize that Cedric Diggory’s death had affected Harry in multiple ways which included Harry being able to see thestrals now. As Harry sees the thestrals for the first time we as readers realize that Cedric’s death was lingering over him and will do so for the rest of this life. The thestrals served as  a reminder of someone’s death, a catalyst of so many unwanted feelings or old memories rushing past your eyes. It always made me wonder if they really existed, would I able to see them one day.

But now that thought doesn’t bother me anymore. You don’t need a giant winged horse to remind you that you’ve lost someone. Their absence and the things and the people they leave behind is enough to accomplish that.

I lost my grandmother a few days ago and my brain still hasn’t deleted the habit of walking into her room to check up on her whenever I walk by. Once I walk in and see her  empty bed, her spectacles placed on her bedside table I am overwhelmed with regret. I had the opportunity of spending more time with her and I didn’t use it. I can’t write this post anymore I’m sorry guys. I just want to stress on how important human contact/interaction is and how we take it for granted. Hug your parents, your grandparents, your siblings, talk to them even if its a boring discussion about the blistering heat these days, make them something, make them listen to your favorite song, do something before its too late.

This sounds too preachy and didactic now but in reality, I want it to sound like that.

 

 

 

Look Ma! I made it!

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You know some rites of passage are just formalities and don’t really define a person’s coming of age. You’re not passed down a meticulously prepared package containing all the knowledge and guidelines you’ll need through the walks of life. Your growth may simply be a result of a mere incident including a small fire in your house (which you created yourself accidentally).

However I couldn’t help but feel exponentially older after attending my school’s graduation ceremony today. Being amidst the buzzing crowd of fresh graduates I felt my heart somehow slightly stir and try to nestle itself in a safe and comfortable place and tire down, exhausted and lost. As I write this I can’t help but feel an air of loss and farewells surround me. Prince’s When Doves Cry is playing on my laptop and I unconsciously arranged the alphabet magnets on the refrigerator to read: “Mourn”. Attached a picture below for proof (I’ve also grown lamer yes)13091619_1097305663662203_49498735_o

But don’t get me wrong, it’s not that this is an unwanted feeling. I was prepared about this long before. I knew I had to grow up someday. I’m just simply succumbing to it. Letting it settle down like a stone settles at the bottom of the sea bed, ready to suffer years of erosion and sea weed ewww.

Anyways, if you felt the same way at your graduation, let me know!

P.S I have finally got a university to go to now. It’s not my best choice but it’s great nonetheless!

Applying for universities and getting rejected like a loser that you are

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nceI’ve reached that part in my life that all my siblings warned me about as I grew up. The part where you apply for universities with some dread and a good sizable amount of hope  and self esteem, enough to last a few months, which quickly fizzles out which each rejection feeling like someone has punched you in the gut…and stole your wallet/purse….and spat on your face as a lasting humiliation.

I’m not being dark or cynical about my situation, I’m being honest. I’ve got more than 10 rejections from universities all over USA and I’ve received 5 acceptances but no aid or enough scholarship to cover all my expenses. The universe loves to play cruel jokes like this on people and I’m not laughing one bit.I’m trying so hard to find a way to pay for my tuition and I’m praying so hard but seriously no one prepared me for this.

To quote my favorite Coldplay song: “No one said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard”. I am exhausted and I’m just looking for some room to breathe.

I’ve heard nothing but words of encouragement from everyone ranging from my 3 year old niece to my college counselor to pursue my dreams but they have been never seemed so far way.

 

 

“YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!”

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Note: I wrote this cheesy article for my school yearbook which didn’t make it to the yearbook in the end therefore dumping this here.

In this era where the concept of birthdays is heavily marketed and every birthday wish has turned into a tedious task added into the pile of other tasks we have to get over with by the end of the day, it was surprising to find out that my parents had no regard for their birthdays. My father didn’t even know his correct birthdate! It had become the ultimate topic of discussion on all family gatherings. WHEN WAS MY FATHER BORN? He adamantly declared that it was 20th October 1957 where as my uncle insisted it wasn’t. My grandmother’s word was not a reliable source as her memory was slowly fading away. Then in recent turn of events we came across my late grandfather’s diary. This diary held the solution to our dilemmas.  It confirmed that my father was born on 12th October 1956. Fueled with the excitement of this revelation, my uncle quickly ringed up my father to tell him the “auspicious” news. My father’s reaction to this was rather lukewarm. He wasn’t riveted to find out that he had a year left till he turned 60. He wanted to be kept in the dark about his age and let it remain a mystery.

Why is that we are always prone to keeping somethings a mystery? Why do we choose to remain ignorant about certain things? Is it because we fear that in the pursuit of some answers we may enter a realm of some unwanted answers; some answers that would demean us and make us aware of a fact we didn’t wish to unravel, like a Pandora box that would ultimately lead to self-destruction.

This deliberate aversion towards gaining knowledge and growing aware is deeply ingrained within us and has been present throughout time. Consider the case in the 16th century when a few inquisitive minds started broadening their horizons and questioning the Geo-centric model proposed by the Catholic Church: the model that proposed the Earth is at the orbital center of all celestial bodies. These minds were so close to the truth, they knew there was an answer waiting to be known about the universe and we, the entire human race, had willfully placed a blindfold on our eyes towards it. Why did the majority shy away from such a revolutionary discovery, especially those in power like the Catholic Church? It was all because of losing their divine status. The geocentric model fueled the human race’s egos. We were the center of the universe; the entire universe worshipped us and depended upon us. How can anyone decline such power and authority?

But the few brave minds persisted in finding the truth, they didn’t settle with the superficial reasoning quoted by the Church, they wanted to dig deeper. One notable person driven by this pursuit is Giordano Bruno. Bruno went one step ahead in just denying the Geo-centric model. He not only advocated the idea that the earth revolved around the sun but also declared that there were distant planets like ours floating around in the cosmos and these planets were capable of harboring life, therefore we were not the only divine and able-minded creations of God, there could many like us, some might even be stronger than us. This theory that is now common knowledge amongst us and these people now that we now refer to as ‘aliens’, do not hurt our ego anymore. But in Bruno’s times, it created an uproar. Bruno was found guilty of heresy and burned at the stake all because he sided with his need of learning more about this universe that we call home.

So yes the truth can be bitter as they say but it will always remain the truth and nothing else, we can’t wish it way, we can’t bury it into oblivion, it is there for a reason, and it will serve its purpose. And if we embrace the truth, who knows, we might discover stars and galaxies and wondrous worlds in the process.

This is beautifully summed up by the late astrophysicist, Carl Sagan: “The truth may be puzzling. It may take some work to grapple with. It may be counterintuitive. It may contradict deeply held prejudices. It may not be consonant with what we desperately want to be true. But our preferences do not determine what’s true.”

Fissures

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                                                          Chapter 2

Everyone jostled excitedly into the wedding hall fearing that the groom’s family might have arrived first. It was a sin for the bride’s family to be late at their own wedding, a mark of shame, an unspeakable crime.

Amna had to lead the train of girls up to the front of the hall as she was the bride’s sister and the next in line to attract a potential suitor. Amna straightened up her shimmery crepe dupatta and slipped her hair pins further in her hair. She felt nervous. She had a gut feeling and that was confirmatory of the fact that something wrong was about to happen. It was a curse to have such an accurate gut feeling. It was like seeing that there’s no light at the end of the tunnel and there’s nothing that you could do to stop it. Amna’s eyes scanned the hall to detect any bearers of ill-wish coming her way.

Soon it was half past nine and the groom still hadn’t arrived nor his family. The guests, whose sole purpose at the wedding was to get free dinner, sat with sour looks on their faces. The wedding song playlist that Amna had meticulously prepared was repeating itself for the fifteenth time and it was proven true that no matter catchy the beat of Yo Yo Honey Singh’s songs were, they can get on your nerves.

Suddenly Amna saw the groom’s parents walking up to her parents. All eyes were on them. They all hastily left the hall and hurried inside the small room where the bride waited before her big entrance.

Amna knew something was definitely wrong and she didn’t want to find out what. Amna heard her grandmother sitting beside her muttering prayers under her breath. If it weren’t for Yo Yo Honey Singh singing about how ‘the water is so blue today’ the silence in the hall would resemble the one inside a waiting room at a hospital.

Twenty minutes gone by and Amna couldn’t contain herself. She marched up to the room where the issue was being resolved or worsening. Her mother stepped out of it before she could enter it herself. She looked disheveled and worried, her eyes apologetic.

“Oh I was just coming to get you”, she said.

“Why? What happened?” This was worse. Why was she being involved in this? All of a sudden Amna abandoned her wish to become old and independent, she wanted to be a four year old again when huge matters like this passed by and all she cared about was her Barbie doll losing a limb.

Hugging her torso, she stepped inside the room. Tahira was sitting on a chair while everyone else was standing with tight lips at the sight of Amna. Tahira’s makeup was ruined after all but it was at the fault of the makeup artist but from incessant crying. The eyeliner, mascara, base, eye shadow was all pooled at the base of her chin.

“Amna, we need to discuss something important with you”, said her father. “You can sit down.”

“No I’d like to stand thank you, just tell me what it is!” she said through her gritted teeth.

Her father cleared her throat and looked down at the ugly carpet. “Well you see it’s not Tahira the groom wants to marry”.

Amna’s heart dropped, she had to force the question out: “Then who?”

“It’s you he wants to marry.”

Amna’s eyes widened. She wanted to burst into laughter. But her social upbringing advised her not to.

“So what do I do about it?” was her simple reply.

Her parents inched closer to her with the hardened gaze of the groom’s parents still upon her.

“Amna beta, look you have to consider this carefully…”

“Consider what? Are you actually being serious?” Amna stared back at her father with her eyes feeling like they would burst out of their sockets.

“This is a serious matter..”

“No no! no!” she shook her head furiously.

“Amna!”

“What’s wrong with Tahira? Why did he accept to marry her in the first place if he wanted to marry me after all?” She shouted at the groom’s parents.

It turned out they were just as stunned as she was. “He..uh..well he changed his mind.”

“Changed his mind?” And you’re advising me on the seriousness of this matter and not him?”

“Amna listen to me!” Her father snapped at her. “We do not live in one of your books okay? This is real life. We have our reputation to maintain!”

“Amna we have raised you, fed you, clothed you, wept tears for you…” her mother started.

Emotionally blackmailing: the ultimate device used on children to convince you to do something you don’t want, Amna couldn’t believe it had actually led to this.

“No! I am not marrying a spineless weasel who thinks he change his brides with the snap of his finger!”

Everyone in the room stood stunned at the boldness of her response.

With that she stormed out of the room.

Fissures

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Note: So i wrote this short story for an online writing competition and sadly I didn’t win so I decided to dump all the trash over here! This is just the first chapter! Happy Reading! And Merry Christmas!

Chapter 1

Amna always woke up to the sound of swallows and crows conversing outside her house but these days she woke up to the sound of Aunt Shagufta’s hand striking against the dhol  ( an ancestral drum used at all weddings).  It was customary in their family to drown the entire house early in the morning with sound of drums accompanied by the loud imperfect singing of all the girls in the house, a week before the wedding. This way, all the unpleasant bickering and shouting brought on from the stress of wedding preparations is coated in a ‘sweet melody’.

The house was flooded with close and distant relatives flown in from all around the world to attend the long awaited wedding of Amna’s elder sister, Tahira. Therefore Amna had to sacrifice her bed to her grandmother; due to her crippling arthritis she found it difficult sleeping on other beds. This one somehow ‘understood’ her and her body as she resolutely said.

This is why Amna found herself struggling from her little cousin’s tight embrace every morning because she had to share the floor mattress with her. This whole wedding situation was getting on her nerves. She couldn’t wait to claim her bed, her room and the serene silence in her house back. She was just counting down the days to the ‘big day’.

And today it had finally arrived. Amna felt like a much needed sigh of relief was lodged in her lungs, just waiting to get out.  Even though it was her elder sister’s wedding, her enthusiasm about weddings stayed in its usual parameters. To her it was just like any other wedding except with a slight display of tears and sadness at the end of it when her sister was leaving to her ‘new’ home. Then she could get back to reading Pride and Prejudice in peace.

The first thing Amna did was check up on her sister. Her room was the only place in their house the preceding calm and silence still resided.  The bride needed her rest and ‘booty sleep’ as the all the elderly  (married) women advised.

Her room was doused in the scent of marigolds decorating her room. She looked like a marigold herself donning her bright yellow ‘mayun’ dress, a dress the bride is supposed to wear before her wedding when she is in required not to leave the house.  She was packing things for the long draining visit at the beauty salon, where the final stages of her metamorphosis into a traditional Pakistani bride will be complete.

“So….today is the big day huh?” Amna said airily while playing with a discarded glass bangle on the floor.

“Yes it is”, said Tahira and smiled at her younger sister. Amna could tell how happy she was and how she masked her happiness with grief over leaving her home and her family.

“So…how does it feel?”

“It feels great, why do you ask?” she gave Amna a sidelong glance. “And get off you’re sitting on my ironed clothes!!”

“I don’t know, I was just making sure that you really want this, you know like, are you getting cold feet or something?” She brought up such a heavy subject with such ease it surprised herself.

Tahira raised her newly trimmed eyebrows, “Cold feet?” She laughed the matter off.

“Well I was just fulfilling my duty as a sister; don’t want you to be trapped in a sucky marriage”

Tahira giggled and poked Amna‘s shoulder with a coat hanger.  “Oh so now you finally want to fulfill your duty as my sister?”

Their conversation was suddenly cut to an end when their mother several other ‘aunties’ bombarded in the room. They had come to discard more of their wisdom about marriage before Tahira left. It was their one last chance to make sure she didn’t fail her marriage, if they had their way they would stick her marriage together with Super Glue to prevent it from ever breaking. Then Amna was ushered out of the room as they wanted to have ‘the talk’ with Tahira. Sex education for the children was reserved till their wedding day in her family. And even then it was explained in such a cryptic and covert manner that they could be either talking about how to prepare stuffed zucchini or how to ‘do the do’.  Amna scoffed at the naivety of her elders. Amna and Tahira already knew what they needed to know from reading various novels and watching Game of Thrones.

After that duty was done, the aunties rushed Tahira off to the beauty salon with last minute advices on how the makeup should be done.

“Make sure they put on extra base to make you look fair!”

“But not too fair we don’t want the groom running away at the altar!”

They all laughed uproariously at this witty comment thrown in the mix by their uncle and that moment Amna realized that a sense of humor was surely something she wouldn’t have inherited in her family.