Let it slide, Johnny
I sit next to Haris on the way back. I tell him my aim in life is to be a rich, young widow. And that I’ll forget my kids in the supermarket one day. And that I want to buy a house with a giant tree in the garden and I’ll write all my wishes on pieces of glass and hang them on its branches and that I plan to be buried in my garden. He starts snoring.
He calls me a “munh ki fire”.
Shazia says ke main “banti huun”
Wow. Hit the jackpot, haven’t they?
“Do you want to get married, or run away?” sings Johnny Rzeznik.
Run away Johnny, every time you ask. Run away, elope, and just start over completely different, where nobody knows who we are and where we’ve come from. A clean slate. Without looking back at the people we’ve hurt; escaping those who hurt us. I’ll not be Hira, daughter of Amanullah Saiyed and Afia Badar and he won’t be whoever he happened to be before. We’ve cut our strings to dance on our own. Puppets live too when nobody’s watching.
Nothing beats dreaming expensive. The cruise, the art galleries, the zen garden, the huge kitchen…if I know my dreams will never be metal or concrete real, why not dream in platinum and 18th century red brick? Snore away Haris, I’ll stay a “munh ki fire”.
Sadly Johnny, I’m not your May. And you’ll never really know what it feels to be a man either. Somehow that makes it all better. If I’m incomplete, you have no right to be anything else either.
Us rabid feminists, tees maar khans, guerilla sisters, female eunuchs are the biggest saps of all.