Tale of Two Rebels

It was from Firdous market till the bridge. “Stop it”. I cried.. But at that moment I felt that there was a demon inside her.” It’s fun and stop whining”. She snubbed me with a grin on her face.

I have always been the coward one. Calculated, meticulous, rebel by soul; but practical by action. My public behavior had been chiefly dictated by my upbringing. Despite the fact that I have lived in west for a long time .I still feel like an alien in my jeans when I walk in the familiar lanes of Lahore.. It is a different world with its decorum and I respect it with my heart and soul. Probably I believe in the sentence of cart land that “You have to behave as a lady in your earldom”. But then I have always tried to be the perfect one. “Repressed” as she had always called with a grin on her face.

Our comradeship was old. I had no idea how is blossomed from the blood tie we had shared because of our births. Or probably it was our love for Sylvia plath, Manto and Faiz which became a cement to the fort of friendship.

That summer I had got my own car. Ironically it was the same model my own father was driving, a fact that amuses me till this day. I am a spoiled kid, who was brought up in a pseudo socialist culture with its aristocratic roots. The girls from 2 civil lines were sent as their brothers to the schools they wanted, if they can prove their worth, but with the lesson that our wings can fly till they want. The code, ethics and values are not written but are memorized. We had dropped maulvi sahib(our driver) at khala’s place and had argued that the tailor in Firdous market would take more time than we both can fathom. And yes that evening I found her wild side. She has used the powerful engine of my new Toyota to race against the guy next. “You are an idiot”..

“What if we both had died”..I shouted ...

“she looked at the chiffon suit , placed on the back seat..
“Scandalous as my sleeve less”.. she answered with a grin..

It is another thing that I never wore sleeveless there.. Decorum.. culture. Repression..

We never realized at that moment the main fact of life. We would be racing against the same guys with our glossy credentials in the world, fighting the norms of the society.
I was not allowed to drive alone.. not across the bridge of Ravi.

We had reputations to protect. Not only ours but also of our families.

That summer both of us had found a new Lahore. Lahore away from the posh areas of defence, the buzz of liberty and the old aunties with their hijabs and corny jokes. Our Lahore was hidden behind the old walls of Ganga ram in the small library of British counsel. I was an idiot in that story.

She used me as a cover up to meet the man she later claimed she had loved. I would park the car, go read the book leaving her thinking that she is working on her thesis. But later confessions and promises proved a whole new world.
I confess that I was the scared little girl. Men meant sin; especially Pakistani men were bigger sin. “Are you an idiot?
Do you know you are getting me in trouble”...That evening I had cried outside Rahat bakery.

“well soon you will be off from Pakistan why the hell do you care?”

She answered with her trademark indifference..

But yea I cared.. I cared about her wildness which would leave a shrill down my spine.

But then it was an adjusted routine. We would get novels and dissect them sitting in the moon light, sipping chai behind closed doors. Sometimes she would smoke, teasing me as if I am the protected mother.. I tried once but then my allergy won’t let me enjoy the smoke coming out of the nose..

Cigarettes were a hidden pleasure.

It was an irony that she wanted to work in cooperate world and I wanted to the civil servant/writer in the closed suppressed society. I liked the decorum, the old houses along the railway tracks, services clubs and there tennis courts. I liked the gossips of old aunties talking about past with hint of nostalgia. I liked the comfort of the life I had known..

West was unknown, and uncertain. It took me a time to feel comfortable in my business skirts and my work. There was the world I had left behind.

After that summer she went for grad school to Europe. I, to North America. Funding was a major reason, where ever it was offered we accepted the admissions.

The calls become scarce. Our student budgets were meagre. I was living in a poor city with a huge scholarship. She, in an expensive city with a smaller funding. The comradeship died with time.

I would sit and think about frog catching monsoons. The races we had done as kids. Our old cycles and old trees. My middle class morality and her wildness.

She was right that I was the repressed one. In the years as an independent student I still maintain the decorum. My infractions were small , I was a coward.

The only time which leave me amused is the time when I had protested for sex workers on parliament hill with local oprig. The time I had sat down with friends till 2 in a local pub to talk politics. Or the time I had stood with a gay friend talking about the rights of aboriginals.

My infractions had been small.. forgive able.. Nothing was scandalous as the chiffon sleeveless shirt she had ordered to our tailor..

Then she fell in love. It was such a predictable story. It was a usual Pakistani love story. Campus love.. It was amusing and disturbing at the same time.

We were having different life paths. She never took the civil service exam. Neither did she write the perfect novel we both had dreamed together. She ended in a boring life in suburbs of another city I still hate...And I had been the perfect daughter.. With decorum and infractions. Today I was amused.. that I proved to be a rebel.. still there still finding my way.