When it comes to introductions, I am a raging mess. I could tell you my name, my age, or where I was born. But that won’t be much fun now, would it? Names are important, but they give people power over you - the power to call your attention, the power to engage you in conversation, or the power to slander you at an overcrowded GT after way too many visits to the bar. So there you have it. I want to be frank with you, you know? I want you to know the real me. Therefore, I’ll focus on more important things.
I’m rich. Not that rich. But rich. I dine at Aylanto quite often, but have only been to Fuji on special occasions. I have the new Corolla, but it’s manual from the gear to the windows. I also have a small but respectable collection of real designer bags, a stunning wardrobe, and a foreign education. I don’t listen to Bollywood music. I must add that if you saw me walking down the street in a place like New York City, you would think that I live on the Upper West Side and only shop at Neiman Marcus. What I’m telling you is that I usually rent a place across the Hudson and I only shop at Last Call. I’m lucky I’m good looking I guess. And, not to be arrogant, but I look expensive. It’s a skill I picked up whilst studying at a women’s college in the United States, to distinguish myself from the herd of track pants and hoodies.
It was the most beautiful evening you had ever seen. A light breeze cut through the sticky heat of the early summer months, carrying with it the murmur of a thousand voices - a chorus more diverse than the starry sky. The breeze danced from building to building - free and merry - almost as if it were celebrating along with the host of delusional women who thought they could escape their fate of becoming waitresses in cities across the world. On this perfect night, just hours before their graduation, three BFF’s made a pact. The Colombian swore never to be racist, no matter how much it estranged her from her people. The Asian swore to lead a life where she would be addressed by her real name, and not as a type of garden plant. And I, the Pakistani girl, swore never to succumb to the pressures of society, become a trophy wife, or abandon my dreams of becoming a fabulously dressed, independent women’s rights activist. I was different from all the women in my native country. I didn’t want to marry for money or lead an extremely lux lifestyle full of travel and comfort. No. I wasn’t going to desert my career and become a fashion designer at a time when everyone in Lahore was becoming a fashion designer. No. I was going to take the high road. I wanted to prove that pretty girls could have substance.
You know what’s funny? How life always finds a way to bring you down on your knees and plead for mercy in the face of your own stupidity and ignorance. My dreams of becoming a women’s rights activist died within the first five hours of landing in Pakistan when I immediately realised that my fabulous outfits would not be welcome at most places where women needed help. The next target was my independence, as I couldn’t drive and was thereby simply not mobile. Finally I realised that my clothes didn’t set me apart in my city - everyone here was fabulously dressed. I instantly needed more money and more travel to keep up with these women. I needed the lux lifestyle. FYI, I am now a fashion designer at a time when everyone in Lahore is a fashion designer. Oh, and I am unmarried. It’s really something when you open up Facebook and realise that all your high school friends are married. But it’s really really something when you open Facebook and realise that all your gay friends abroad are getting married before you. How does that happen?
I often feel that I am being punished for the idiocy I displayed on that perfect evening before graduation. Heck, I even felt empowered and hopeful the next day when life gave me the absolute bestest surprise of my life (there were none after). My mother was coming to visit my college for the first time. She had never seen parents drinking with their children, or girls without hair, or girls with facial hair. I had expected her to throw a tantrum or start a fight or at least tick a few people off by staring at them. Nope. She was so taken aback by the mountains and the lakes that she spent most of her day immersing herself in their natural beauty. I was convinced the world was on my side.
On a bench under a tall Sugar Maple tree, Mona sat motionless. She was staring straight ahead at the misty mountains that clouded the horizon. Yes, this sight was beautiful, perhaps even breathtaking, but Mona didn’t care for nature. She would have turned around and observed the people of this place, something that she would have enjoyed a lot more, but Mona was scared. She was scared that someone might notice the look of disgust that was plastered on her face. Mona had tried to curb this look - contorting her face to make somewhat of a smile - but this simply seemed to enhance the green of the vein popping out of her forehead, and made her look even more like a racist South Asian bigot. This was absolutely unacceptable to Mona. Mona was a cosmopolitan woman. Mona had traveled the world and, unlike her parents, had evolved to appreciate the existence of black people. It made her grateful for her fairness, and humility was very important indeed. No, what bothered Mona on this day was something different. It was powerful enough to make Mona believe that the risks of sending off her young girl to a place where men and women slept in close quarters might have been far less severe. Mona was, in fact, intensely perturbed by how so many young girls, gifted with super skinny bodies, had decided to waste their youth on short hair and unflattering outfits.
Zara C. Churri lives in Lahore
I’m rich. Not that rich. But rich. I dine at Aylanto quite often, but have only been to Fuji on special occasions. I have the new Corolla, but it’s manual from the gear to the windows. I also have a small but respectable collection of real designer bags, a stunning wardrobe, and a foreign education. I don’t listen to Bollywood music. I must add that if you saw me walking down the street in a place like New York City, you would think that I live on the Upper West Side and only shop at Neiman Marcus. What I’m telling you is that I usually rent a place across the Hudson and I only shop at Last Call. I’m lucky I’m good looking I guess. And, not to be arrogant, but I look expensive. It’s a skill I picked up whilst studying at a women’s college in the United States, to distinguish myself from the herd of track pants and hoodies.
I was going to take the high road - to prove that pretty girls could have substance
***
It was the most beautiful evening you had ever seen. A light breeze cut through the sticky heat of the early summer months, carrying with it the murmur of a thousand voices - a chorus more diverse than the starry sky. The breeze danced from building to building - free and merry - almost as if it were celebrating along with the host of delusional women who thought they could escape their fate of becoming waitresses in cities across the world. On this perfect night, just hours before their graduation, three BFF’s made a pact. The Colombian swore never to be racist, no matter how much it estranged her from her people. The Asian swore to lead a life where she would be addressed by her real name, and not as a type of garden plant. And I, the Pakistani girl, swore never to succumb to the pressures of society, become a trophy wife, or abandon my dreams of becoming a fabulously dressed, independent women’s rights activist. I was different from all the women in my native country. I didn’t want to marry for money or lead an extremely lux lifestyle full of travel and comfort. No. I wasn’t going to desert my career and become a fashion designer at a time when everyone in Lahore was becoming a fashion designer. No. I was going to take the high road. I wanted to prove that pretty girls could have substance.
***
You know what’s funny? How life always finds a way to bring you down on your knees and plead for mercy in the face of your own stupidity and ignorance. My dreams of becoming a women’s rights activist died within the first five hours of landing in Pakistan when I immediately realised that my fabulous outfits would not be welcome at most places where women needed help. The next target was my independence, as I couldn’t drive and was thereby simply not mobile. Finally I realised that my clothes didn’t set me apart in my city - everyone here was fabulously dressed. I instantly needed more money and more travel to keep up with these women. I needed the lux lifestyle. FYI, I am now a fashion designer at a time when everyone in Lahore is a fashion designer. Oh, and I am unmarried. It’s really something when you open up Facebook and realise that all your high school friends are married. But it’s really really something when you open Facebook and realise that all your gay friends abroad are getting married before you. How does that happen?
I often feel that I am being punished for the idiocy I displayed on that perfect evening before graduation. Heck, I even felt empowered and hopeful the next day when life gave me the absolute bestest surprise of my life (there were none after). My mother was coming to visit my college for the first time. She had never seen parents drinking with their children, or girls without hair, or girls with facial hair. I had expected her to throw a tantrum or start a fight or at least tick a few people off by staring at them. Nope. She was so taken aback by the mountains and the lakes that she spent most of her day immersing herself in their natural beauty. I was convinced the world was on my side.
***
On a bench under a tall Sugar Maple tree, Mona sat motionless. She was staring straight ahead at the misty mountains that clouded the horizon. Yes, this sight was beautiful, perhaps even breathtaking, but Mona didn’t care for nature. She would have turned around and observed the people of this place, something that she would have enjoyed a lot more, but Mona was scared. She was scared that someone might notice the look of disgust that was plastered on her face. Mona had tried to curb this look - contorting her face to make somewhat of a smile - but this simply seemed to enhance the green of the vein popping out of her forehead, and made her look even more like a racist South Asian bigot. This was absolutely unacceptable to Mona. Mona was a cosmopolitan woman. Mona had traveled the world and, unlike her parents, had evolved to appreciate the existence of black people. It made her grateful for her fairness, and humility was very important indeed. No, what bothered Mona on this day was something different. It was powerful enough to make Mona believe that the risks of sending off her young girl to a place where men and women slept in close quarters might have been far less severe. Mona was, in fact, intensely perturbed by how so many young girls, gifted with super skinny bodies, had decided to waste their youth on short hair and unflattering outfits.
Zara C. Churri lives in Lahore