Don't Remind Me

Chapter 20: The True Story

"All you self-professed Math huggers out there, be warned. There's a reason why our College Algebra course is Ungraded. Welcome to a world of Tears and C-minuses! The teacher will start off by introducing Math as a "Language" With it's own "Grammar" and "Rules". Unfortunately for us, that language might as well be a variation of Inuktitut, spoken somewhere around the North-pole by Bear-eating Eskimos..."--(Nitty Gritty, Issue No 832, February'15)

"Just one more to go Hayat! You can do this!" Azaan's yells were coming to me from a distant place. I clutched at my stomach in agony. My nemesis was likewise drained...or perhaps the right word would be, stuffed. He stared at me, bloodshot eyes, face wet with tears. I could see the pleading in his eyes, Give up already.

"It hurts." I moaned. My entire life flashed before my eyes in that moment. Today is very likely, my last day on earth. "Tell my sister I love her...and that our cat is secretly a serial killer..."

"I know it hurts babe, but you can do this. You're almost there! Don't chicken out now, this is about our honor. Besides, my ice-cream sundae is riding on this." Shay hissed in my ear. My personal cheerleader.

Azaan is back. Leaning in from the other side to growl, "You own that stomach. That stomach doesn't own you! Show it who's boss...." This followed by a clap on my back. I whimpered. The urge to throw up was too strong...

My nemesis takes that opportunity to swipe up two more mouthfuls. He grins widely now, "Give up, Baji! (Big sister) I win!"

I eye the last remaining Golgappa on my plate. My intestines are threatening to go on strike. My nose is red and runny with the spices...If this were a Tom & Jerry episode, I'd be waving that white little flag right about now. As it is, I'm extremely competitive, and I'll be damned if let myself be bested by delicious street food.

I take in a shallow breath. Shallow. Because it so happens that eating 47 Golgappas (AKA Pani Puri) in one sitting, can seriously reduce the expansion space created in our bodies for our lungs. I gingerly pick up the last fried crisp filled with chickpeas and chutney. Next step is to dip it in the sour and spicy Imli ka pani (Tamarind sauce). The crisp is so flaky that it starts to disintegrate as soon as I fill it with sauce, so I quickly lean forward and gulped it down. The sauce dribbles down my chin, and hands. It is a well known culinary law, that there's absolutely no attractive way to eat golgappas.

My friends cheered once I had completed the bet. I was too busy keeping my four dozen Golgappas down, to notice the hollering, and congratulations erupting around me.

I grinned weakly at 12-year-old Gohar, my new friend and nemesis. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he made an "L" sign over his forehead.

For once, I didn't mind losing to Gohar. He's already lost so much...

It's been a few months since APS. Recently, Azaan came to hear about this state-funded initiative of rehabilitation for the APS survivors. Since the surviving kids were so mentally disturbed, a change of scenery was recommended by the counselors and psychologists dealing with the case. A few of the kids were eager to visit Karachi with their parents. I suppose, with its beaches, and amusement parks, Karachi had a different more metropolitan environment than Peshawar to offer to the kids. When we contacted the initiative organizers regarding volunteers, they were ecstatic about our enthusiasm to help. So a bunch of us University students were voluntarily hosting the APS survivor families, and showing them around town.

Mama had reluctantly allowed me to tag along. Today's our third day on the Karachi tour bus, and already I feel like a total noob, because I haven't done most of the things my friends are chattering about. It seems almost criminal that I don't know my city all that well. When Azaan came to know that I have never traveled in a Rickshaw or eaten bun kebabs from questionable street vendors, he took it upon himself, to turn this trip into a self-discovery adventure for me. So far I've made friends with Gohar (one of our guests from Peshawar), traveled in a Rickshaw and made myself sick by indulging in a golgappa competition. I'm proud of myself for these accomplishments, and if my intestines don't melt after all this spicy sauce, my next goal is a famous road-side bun kebab that Azaan and Asadomer practically worship.