The girl in the mirror refuses to meet my eyes. Her cheeks are splotched red, her eyes are swollen and teary, her lips chewed raw and she's looking anywhere but at me. How do I tell her this pain inside her is ephemeral when it's only been growing so so much more?
It should have been me.
It should have been you, Hana but it wasn't, accept it. You didn't get that top position in the board, it was not meant to be yours and no matter what you would have done more or less, you would not have gotten it because it just wasn't meant for you—
My hand thrashes out at the marble countertop before me and I knock off the tumbler that holds our toothbrushes in it, the toothpaste tube flies across the bathroom along with it.
WHY was it not meant for me?
I smack the back of my hand at the soap dish so it goes slipping past by me too.
Am I that undeserving?
I throw the shampoo bottle at the wall across me and then grab the glass bottle of my perfume.
Am I worthless for you Allah?
My chest hitches as I struggle to draw in a breath, my teeth bite down on my lips even harder and I pull my arm back ready to smash the bottle at another wall when an animalistic cry escapes my lips and I fall to my knees, holding the perfume bottle to my chest.
Is this my punishment?
This pain pokes inside my chest like a dry branch spreading out in my lungs. I wanted this position so badly and then I did not get it. And then Faria got it! She did not even need it, she did not even desire it so desperately as I did! She did not even think of it when preparing for the exams then why Allah, why could you just not let me have it for once? To want something so strongly and then see someone else have it who does not even need it—
Is this how Nashwa feels regarding me and Ahmad Mamu?
I kick away the perfume bottle, everything in me is filled with hot red hate. My hands grasp the roots of my hair and I pull at them, holding in my hitched breathing, my chest heaving, uncontrollable sobs escaping my mouth, my entire body tremoring— there's no oxygen in my lungs, the branches in my chest stab at my heart and I clamp a hand tight over my mouth but the entirety of my grief and sorrow comes out in the form of hot searing tears and even louder hiccups and oh god, I hate myself. For everything. Everything.
I have failed at everything, what's there left for me to live for?
Picking up my broken shards, I stand up in my bathroom and splash cold water onto my face. Without drying it, I head out to the kitchen, ignoring Baano who is intelligent enough not to approach me in this state of fury I am in and I slice a large piece of last night's cake— the size of four good servings because why even bother with this weight loss when I'll fail at it too — and then I head back to my room, locking it after me. I'm still crying hysterically as I put spoon after spoon in my mouth, every bite of chocolate fudge and buttercream filling me with even greater hate and resentment for myself. Who cares if I'm fat? Who cares if I grow into my twenties with a hundred health issues? Who cares if I don't attract any good suitors for myself, who cares how I live, how I die, how I live undead through this pain?
I stuff another spoonful of self-destruction into my mouth. Who the hell cares? Who the hell cares when the entire world is against me?
In the middle of my pity party my phone rings. It's Ainee. God I cannot deal with her at this moment but I pick up anyway.
"Hana, I heard from Neha you aren't coming."
Congratulations to Neha for correctly forwarding the news. Cheers!
"Hana?"
"Yes, Ainee, I can't make it."
"Hana, I know you were expecting the position for yourself but—"
But fate plays before it slays.
"Hanaan's still at the hospital, Ainee, so is my entire family. You cannot expect me to come and party while they cut open her head and then try to stitch it back."
I only realise my outburst when there is silence on the other end.
"Hana..."
"I'm sorry. I just donated blood for her, I'm kind of cranky because of it."
"Tell me," her voice is soft. "Did you just find about Faria's position right now, from Neha?"
"Maybe."
"You didn't read all those messages I sent you—"
"I couldn't Ainee and it's fine because this is the least of my concerns with everything else going on—"
"You should have told me, Hana! You could have called, you could have tried talking out your troubles—"
"I should have called?" I wipe away the dampness on my cheeks.
She is silent again and this time I'm not sorry.
"I'll tell Neha to cancel this thing, you're going through a really tough time I gather, we should come over and help you get through it. Some company would do you good."
I sigh. "There's no need, Ainee. It's bad enough that my happiness got ruined by Hanaan's injury but it's fine upon me because she's my sister and I care for her but she's not Faria's sister, you cannot put this burden on her to bear."
"But you are our friend—"
"All I need is some rest and time away from the entire world, some peace. I don't think I will be able to get that with all of you around."
"Hana, pushing people away will not help you—"
"Ainee, I'm not pushing people away. I did donate blood, remember, I do need to rest. And by evening, Dadi will be home as well and I'll probably go visit my parents and Hanaan too. Honestly, I cannot deal with you all right now, it'll be too much of a fuss for me, where to seat you all, what to serve you all, how to avoid the awkward silences and not make it into an even more pitiful party than it will already be." Just to properly ward her off, I add, "Plus, I don't feel comfortable sharing all my emotions with the rest of the group, you've somehow come close but that doesn't mean you're allowed to bring in others into my personal space too."
Again there's silence and instantly guilt pools into my chest but to damn with feelings. If others burn in this fire with me, then I should not mind the flames, right?
"Well that has now officially ruined my day."
"Ainee—"
"The others would have understood, you know, your troubled times. We all gathered together when Neha's grandfather passed away remember? He was not our grandfather but did that hold us from sharing our condolences? And remember how we all went over to Zimal's place when her mother sprained her ankle and even though it was college carnival that day, we returned early and cooked her lunch even though she had house staff to do it but we did it to be supportive so why would we not do this for you?"
It is my turn to be silent.
"You, Hana, you don't let us in to help you. Personal space be damned, it's called consolation, comforting, looking out in tough times and yes, I didn't call, I should have called but do you ever share the intensity of Hanaan's condition with us, do you ever tell us anything that's been going bad in your family, do you ever tell us how you're coping with it all? You've never invited us over, wouldn't let us greet your mother when she came over at the parent teacher meeting at college, you concealed your private life entirely from us and apart from the fact that you want to be a doctor and you like pastel nail colours and you're not on Instagram and that you're trying to lose weight, I don't know much about you!"
I can hear her breathing heavily on the other side and my breathing is just as irregular. The girl who wouldn't look me in the eye in my mirror— she wouldn't even recognize me now. The truth is so very bitter cold.
"I still can't figure out what to do, Hana." Her voice is broken on the other side. "Come over by myself to be with you or just let you be on your own and tell Faria it's something minor holding you back and not all this coldness of yours."
"Go," I whisper. "Go to the party."
"Oh, I will! I don't even think I know where you live."
When neither of us hang-up for the next one twenty seconds, I pull away the phone from my ear. This is why. This is why I hate myself. One way or the other, I have brought my pain upon me by my own self, by my own actions. How can I confront Allah about it then? My gaze falls onto my empty plate of cake. When the tears sear their way through my lashes and fall onto my hands, I bury them into my pillow and let my mattress absorb the shocks that go through my body as every now and then my chest shudders as I struggle to breath, tears escaping on their own. And somewhere in between my turmoil and torment, I drift away to sleep.
When I wake up, it is sometime after four and I call Nashwa asking if she can come over. She tells me I'm in luck today and her Haala Mami is busy at the market and the boys are away to the mosque for their daily Quran recitation lessons. I have to check if the driver is free and he is. I send him over to Nashwa's and then get at fixing myself and the mess I had made. I shower again and just as I am done towel drying my hair, Nashwa knocks at my room's door and I let her in.
"You look awful."
I roll my eyes, massaging my damp hair loose. She asks if I've looked through the tablet already and I tell her it's been a busy day. Somehow, she doesn't mention Faria although I'm sure she must have heard especially because we all went to the same college and the college must have already blasted this news upon all its social media sites. Everyone likes their attention.
Baano comes in with a tray and we settle down on the carpet in the middle of my room. We don't have beds for Hanaan's ease, it has always been high mattresses on each side of the room, properly tucked in with bedsheets and numerous pillows to make a complete make shift bed. In the space between the two mattresses is a large fluffy carpet with one of its end aligned with a wall. By the wall are more cushions to sit against, all colourful, pink, yellow, orange and grass green. I do have a study table at one corner of my room because I needed it desperately to work at, I can't work sitting on my mattress like Hanaan can and we have a mirror attached to the wall, a small table top attached below it that holds essentials like hairbrush and hair ties and clips. Our room is comfortable but holds as little furniture as possible to reduce chances of Hanaan getting hurt. There are instead numerous bean bags and wall adornments like picture frames and drawings and printed colourful quotations taped on our walls with fairy lights hanging over them to give it an even happier glow. Sometimes this blast of colour makes me want to throw up rainbows so I retire to my happy place in Dadi's indoor gardens. But most of my happy laughter and smiles and mischief plans were made in this room only. I grew up here. With Hanaan. I never want to change it.
Nashwa eyes my large cup of cinnamon tea and shoots me a look of disapproval. She picks her own mug of chai and sips on it contentedly. "If you ever, once, drank chai consecutively for three to four days, you'd know what it feels like to fall in love, trust me. It has its own romantic energy."
"Precisely why I like to stay away."
She slurps again on her chai and I have to hold back my exasperation. Don't get provoked. Don't get provoked. The cinnamon tea warms me up on the inside and I relish in the calmness that the honey in it brings into my body. It's a hot summer afternoon but of course that is no valid reason for Nashwa to abandon chai, I dare not even mention it and I need my cinnamon tea for the mental stability. We sip on our mugs quietly, not reaching for Hanaan's tablet between us that is yet to be powered on. I sip on my cup again when thoughts begin to plague my head. This one tablet, what could it possibly hold to bring the two of us together like this and put Hanaan in the hospital like that.
Or are we just over thinking the whole situation?
"You can feel all the evil energy in it, can't you?" Nashwa eyes the tablet. "Like it's some years old decayed real human skull just waiting to rise into the air and start speaking prophecies." She looks up and then holds both her hands in apology. "Not that I'm accusing Hanaan of anything, just this tablet."
It is true. Something does feel off. We don't mention it again and silently decide to continue with our teas and finish them before tackling this tablet. When we're done, we set aside the mugs. Baano comes in yet again with another tray and on it is a glass pitcher with cool sherbet and ice cubes floating on the top. There's also a plate of salted potato chips and home-made popcorns. I do not reach for them. Nashwa on the other hand, pulls her curls into a messy bun and grabs a handful of chips and stuffs them all into her mouth. She motions towards the tablet and slowly, squaring my shoulders against her manners, I reach for it. Do not be provoked, Hana. You have not lost everything yet.
While the tablet powers on, Nashwa has devoured some popcorns as well. We wait for the tablet to connect to the home wi-fi and immediately it begins beeping and vibrating with notifications one after another, so much that I have to rest it on the carpet between us and share a look with Nashwa. My toes are pricking with needles already and my heart is beating against my ribcage. Again, my teeth are biting down on my lip and I can see Hanaan in my head snapping at me for this habit of mine and chucking Vaseline at me from across the room. What would Hanaan look like now as we look through her tablet?
"Wow, she has a lot of online friends." Nashwa slides down the notification bar and the hand holding chips stops midway to her mouth. "Or rather, one particular very concerned friend who has messaged her —" she squints at the screen "— twenty five times in the last twenty four hours and then some other notifications too about people sharing memes with her." She looks up. "She has the best meme friends, she forwards me all the memes they send."
We sit in close and Nashwa pours herself a glass of sherbet. She asks me if I'd like some and I tell her I don't want my cinnamon tea to become ineffective right now. She shrugs and casually sips on the sherbet and I turn my train of thoughts to think that maybe she's very tired. She does live with three boys, Zaid is twelve and the troublesome twins, Uzair and Huzair are eight years old. Nashwa's Haala Mami is expecting another child now and to care for her in this state must also be tiring upon Nashwa. Maybe she only now got a chance to relax after yesterday when she even donated blood for Hanaan.
I suddenly don't mind the lack of distance between us.
Thankfully, when the tablet broke, none of the memory was affected. All of Hanaan's social media apps are logged in and I am about to protest when Nashwa directly touches the twenty five messages friend of Hanaan's in the notification panel. It opens and the train of messages we read is— disturbing.
Hey long time no seen?
Are you avoiding me now?
I didnt mean to alienate you.
I need that file H I really do.
You understand the stakes dont you?
Are you not answering because youre working on it?
Btw we really should meet in real now.
What do you say? ;)
Are you shying away now?
H?
Youre making me run after you like Peter Parker runs after Tony Stark.
Mr Stark are you there?
Nashwa and I exchange a glance and blink at each other. What even is this?
My eyes catch sight of the sender's username: WahdQays and over it, his full name: Waheed Qayser. Why is a boy talking to Hanaan? Like this!
"Waheed Qayser? Do we know a Waheed Qayser from her school or our family?"
Nashwa doesn't meet my eye at this and I notice she's reading the rest of the messages, paling even further. Of course, the way he's talking is disturbing, I will most definitely be pulling this young boy's ear whoever he is in Hanaan's previous class perhaps.
And then I read the next message.
Hana, answer me.
I turn to Nashwa again. "Why did he just call Hanaan Hana?" But Nashwa does not reply she only scrolls further until I have to snatch the tablet away from her hands. Her eyes remain fixated where the tablet was, mouth opening and closing.
Honestly, what is going on?
I exit the DM and on the very top of the rest of Hanaan's Instagram profile is her username: hana.j.here. My fingers work on their accord, the app is unfamiliar to me but I find myself on her profile where it's my own picture staring back at me as the display picture, a recent picture too from my Snapchat that is, and the name is also unmistakably mine.
Hana Junaid
I don't own an Instagram. Everyone knows it. All my friends know it. So why is my account staring back at me from Hanaan's tablet. Why is this not making sense? The pictures, fifty fricking seven of them, are all inexplicably mine too, each of them showcasing a bright smile, selfies and group photos I can't even understand where Hanaan gathered from and I'm scrolling down through each of them reading the captions under them:
Hot day at the gym. You gotta work it to make it. A very flushed picture of me, my shirt falling deep over my shoulder revealing my collar bone and the purple strap of my sports bra. How many people saw this?
Best day with my lovelies, wouldn't wish for a different group in heaven either. A picture of me with Zimal, Neha, Ainee and Faria, all of us in a group photo, hair slick wet, our chests disappearing under water as we grouped together in the swimming pool. Even below the water, the shape of our body figures can be made out and it's humiliating that it's up here for show. Did my friends also put this picture onto their Instagram?
All the world's a stage but I am surely the queen because I believe myself to be. You should too and see how it changes life for you. A full picture of me in a gown I wore to my college farewell party. What sort of a caption even is that!
Put your heart in all that you put your time into. That's how your time will be worthy of what you do. A picture of me sleeping over my books on my study table, I don't remember taking this, this Hanaan must have captured by herself.
I pause at its caption, that's something I have often said to my friends on the phone when they would ask me how I managed to get good grades even in those subjects that I intensely hated like history and Urdu. All this time, Hanaan was listening onto me but how did she get all these pictures of me from my phone? I know she did not screenshot them off my Snapchat, I would have been notified then. And most importantly—
"Nashwa," I whisper in mortification. "Why would Hanaan do this?"
Why would Hanaan pretend to be me. Why would she put up such — intimate — pictures of me for strangers to see. I don't even dare read the comments on each picture. She has two hundred and seventy nine followers and I don't even know that many people in my life.
Nashwa does not meet my eye but then she does. "I was right, see. A file is involved in all this, did you not read it in that guy's message."
"He's probably just some friend of hers from school, asking for an—" But why would he call her Hana then? Is that his nickname for her? Are they that intimate? I choke over my own saliva. Do all of Hanaan's friends call her Hana?
"Hana." Nashwa exhales my name heavily.
Hana. I have a sudden loathing in me for this name.
Nashwa has the tablet in her hand now and shows me the very latest messages from this Waheed Qayser that were sent just an hour ago.
Fine, dont reply.
You don't realise how high the stakes are. So high I am willing to do ANYTHING it takes to get that file from you.
If you dont reply to me in the next 24hrs I will be forced to do what I mentioned earlier Hana and trust me I dont want to do it I care too much for you but the people who are involved will make me do it.
24 hours.
That is his last message.
Nashwa draws in a breath before reading aloud. "I have too many pictures of you, Hana, don't you think? Do you send everyone all these pictures of you in private? No, well, then I am a lucky guy and you are a gorgeous girl. Okay okay I won't be cheap although I wouldn't say I wasn't flirting either. Sorry sorry, we will be just friends. I do want you to keep talking to me, my little song bird."
Nashwa shudders and my breathing hastens. What the F is all this? What the hell has Hanaan been up to? Who the hell in this world is this guy? And all this he's saying to my sister with my image in his mind. I could throw up all the cake I stuffed and then all my organs out too. My cheeks feel hot with humiliation and shame when Nashwa clears her throat and continues with the series of his messages. We skip Hanaan's in between because she has only sent her messages in voice notes and this guy's are too disturbing we can't be bothered with Hanaan for now.
"You should not have sent me all these pictures, Hana. It's not safe these days, everyone knows how to use Photoshop and turn a simple smile into something so vulgar you would not want to show your face to society again. Of course I'm not that kind of guy but there's something you should know. What the hell—" Nashwa's face is contorted into disgust and she scrolls down a few more messages then looks up at me. "You sure you want to go through more of these messages?"
What more can I lose after my very own identity?
She carries on, clearing her throat first, "Hana darling, you have to get me that file one way or another. I was being easy first, now I will come to point. Let me send you a few pictures of you that may help you change your mind— shit Hana!"
She turns off the tablet and holds it tight. "You can't, I can't let you see this."
"See what?" My words come out emotionless and slow.
"I can't believe it! This is—" she's shaking her head, she's standing up and then she's stepping away from me still shaking her head, still holding the tablet tight in her hands against her chest and her eyes far away in a realm full of shock. I have never seen Nashwa so unravelled before.
"Let me take a wild guess." I stand up slow and draw out every word. It's like the entire world has stopped, zero kelvin temperature, all the atoms around me gone cold in the air like every bone in my body is now covered in chills. "He sent Hanaan—" I whisper "—Photoshopped pictures of me." My voice breaks. "To threaten her."
Nashwa's eyes are full of apologies for me. So much pity. So much horror. What did she really see in those pictures? How much more revolting could my existence be?
"I can't believe Hanaan actually did it." She is talking to herself but I hear every word.
All the atoms are back to colliding full speed around me, every inch of my skin prickles with electricity from under the surface and all my veins carry fire in them now.
"You knew of this?"
Nashwa quickly shakes her head in denial, eyes still wide with surprise. "No, Hana. We just once talked, it was last year, about how you didn't have an Instagram account when your life could be so aesthetically displayed and Hanaan said she wished she was you, she would be so proud of your life—"
"This looks like an obsession with me!" I cry out.
"She adored you, I told her she could make an account by herself—"
My palm strikes against her cheek in a loud clap that echoes in our minds as her neck twists to the side and she stumbles back a few steps. When she reaches for her cheek, face still turned away from me, her cheek is red and her eyes are teary, her entire body stiff and petrified.
"Of course it was you, Nashwa! Of course!" I am both crying and screaming at her at the same time. "This is all your fault! You have always hated me because of Ahmad Mamu, you have always envied me because of Hanaan! You always wanted to get better grades than me! You always wanted my place and after I let you stay over night at our place with Hanaan, sleep on my mattress while I slept in Dadi's room, you still do this to me! What more did you want? Can you not see my life is already hell without you in it! And now this!"
My chest falls and rises as I stare at her to death. I could throttle that neck of hers, pulls all her long curly hair off her scalp, I could stab a knife through her...
"How could you be so poisonous towards me, make my own sister destroy me, this isn't just me involved in here now, Nashwa! My father is too, my mother is too! You have destroyed all of us, how are my parents going to ever be able to look anyone in the eye now, are you fricking happy and satisfied?"
She doesn't turn her head to look at me but a stray tear does escape from her eye. What is she crying about? What is she sorry about when there is nothing of my honour and shame left of?
I am full on sobbing in front of her, I don't even have any more words to say so she turns to me now, one side of her face still so red. "Are you done?"
She has the audacity to ask this?
"Get out of my room, I never want to see your face again!"
I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.
She grabs her chadar, puts it around her and over her head, moves across me and places the tablet onto my mattress. I don't turn to watch her leave, I never want to see her again—
Coldness grasps my skull and I am suddenly frozen in place. It takes me some time to realise it is cold sherbet slipping down my hair to my scalp and into my shirt. I gasp realising that the entire contents of the sherbet in the pitcher are now dripping down my body.
Did she just—
I turn to see Nashwa holding the empty glass pitcher in her hands, dark eyes filled with fervour, fury and frenzy. She opens her mouth to spit something at me but then closes it and simply shakes her head. She places the jug back onto the tray by my feet and then walks out of my room. I am still in shock when I completely turn around and of course there is Dadi standing outside my room, looking as appalled as myself.
She too does not say anything. Just a shake of head that crumbles into dust whatever was left of my integrity and then walks away from me.
What did I do wrong?
So much for letting down the wall. Was there even a wall when my body was being displayed so openly to everyone and anyone out there in the world? How can I be compassionate and forgiving when my heart is not just bruised, it is completely torn to shreds by those I love the most?
Hanaan! How could you do this to me?
Numbness embraces me in the loneliness of my room as ghosts of my own body scream in my head in the many forms they could be transformed into on a computer by a man with ill wishes.
And then I remember: twenty four hours.
Until what?
whoops! bechari, Hana, right?
to all the silent readers, please don't be so silent, let me know you're there, drop a comment or two and vote maybe? the tiniest support means the world to me :) until monday, 𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒶𝒽𝒾𝓁.