I feel gossipy.
A ‘friend’ just got married recently and I felt that, for old time’s sake, and to make sure she’s successfully out of our lives, I should attend. Also it provided me a chance to meet up with a few people I actually did care about, and not have to pay extravagantly for the one slice of cheesecake or sandwich that I usually end up ordering. Free food- why should I pass up the chance, eh?
So there we are, Awz and I, being driven miles away to the one spot in the city that is more God-forsaken than my university (I kid you not) and we are arguing about whether we should even go. Awz says she doesn’t want to, because if she has to talk to her she’ll end up saying something she might regret. And I insist that we should; after three years of her tortuous companionship we should at least say a proper “Thank you for shoving off to Riyadh- and good riddance!” And once again, free food, hel-lo?
Just so that you know, we’re the closest friends she has.
It takes a woman of substance to inspire such hatred in so many people. I have to admire her for that. No matter how hard I try to be a pain in the ass (and I do try, and succeed), I can only manage to garner a little disrespect and ridicule (and let me assure you, it is plenty painful in itself); but nobody disrespects A. and nobody ridicules her. We can’t. For what it’s worth, when I think of her I can only think of extreme intelligence, and forgive the melodrama, evil.
And she’s going to the center of traditional Islam. Heaven help us Muslims.
You see, the thing is, there she was on the stage, on the most memorable day of her life, and she had no friends with her. The people who had studied with her for four years were wondering what a hard time her in-laws were going to have (I remember somebody even said “haye bichaari iss ki saas”) , and assuming her husband probably deserved what was coming to him, considering he fell in love with her looks- take that all you superficial twits out there! In her designer gharara, with her plastic surgeon husband, and her 6 lakh ka polka ka set, she had no well wishers apart from her family- and they were probably forced into it by ties of blood. Blood is thicker than water and all that shit. If I didn’t despise her, I’d feel sorry for her.
Thing is, it doesn’t matter during these moments how good your GPA was (though we all know how you got that), how expensive your hair-do is and where you got it done (like you didn’t flaunt it in the middle of the annual dinner with remarks like “Mehr’s so rude but she is the best, you know”), and how good-looking you actually are (haye the Punjabi husn we urdu-speaking crave)- what matters is having people around you who are truly happy for you and praying for your well-being. Who feel, if not all, but atleast a fraction of the joy you do.
Poor bitch-ari A.