There was a crazy story behind how Ahmed had become the one person I cherished more than anyone. And it all started the day I had gotten into a terrible fight with a neighbor, which led to me having another conflict with my friend, who was friends with the neighbor I had fought with, and then I had an argument with my parents who were disappointed when the two girls’ parents had appeared at the door, one after the other in the past hour.
I was in a lousy mood. I had always been moody since I had lost my uncle. He was pretty much everything I needed, he was my father, my mother, and with him there was no need for my family. When he died, I had begun to suffer from bipolarity, and I began to separate myself from the community, isolating myself to the safety of my bedroom, which was on the roof. In my safe haven, I would lie under the clear skies, write in my journal, which contained pretty much everything I had once dreamed of. Emphasis on once, I no longer believed in any of it, and I just wrote about how my days were passing without my uncle. I would spend my days doing either that or stuff my face with Oreos, and sometimes watch sad anime, curled up in a fetal position and cry about how terrible my life was.

Drama queen? No. I seriously missed my uncle and had no idea how to express my feelings. No matter how much my parents forced me to speak to a shrink, things wouldn’t get better. I would stare at the shrink who would stare right back at me. Then, I would watch the clock tick with a frown on my face and ask the shrink if I could nap. She would just gawk at me. Mind you, I am not from a rich family, I was pretty sure that my parents were wasting- oops, I mean spending a lot on this shrink, but honestly, I didn’t need her help. At this point, I think she needed some help, she had some serious problems with her wardrobe, and her hair was something I didn’t want to comment about.

But that’s not important.

My mother was a lonely woman who seemed to rely on the only child (me) left underneath her roof for comfort since my father was always busy with work and neglected her womanly desires to speak about her passions, dreams and fears (it’s okay to cringe, I do too). I wasn’t able to comfort her or fill the space that my father had left inside her. In my world I myself needed the comforting. I tried my best, it never worked, and I felt like I had let her down. She had never told me she loved me to my face ever since I had decided to become a failure and took the train down loser lane. You know how you hear people say ‘wow you must be that fat nerd who lives in his mother’s basement eating the termites in the walls?’ That was sort of like me, except I wouldn’t be eating termites, I would be eating slippers for breakfast, lunch and dinner and would listen to my mother’s constant complaining.

But there came a day (finally) when my mother had decided she was sick of my behavior and wanted to destroy my dreams of becoming a fat nerd. She dragged me by the collar, South Asian style from my bed and made me look her in the eye.

“I’ve had enough,” she told me and I yawned, rubbing my eyes. It was an act, I had to pretend to be rebellious to look cool, but let me tell you something, it’s the truth, don’t freak out. South Asian parents like to get things done, even if it means getting you to squat and smack you on the behind with flip flops (which were usually worn when entering the bathroom). 

“Stop yawning,” my mother snapped and I grunted. She glared at me with her big, dark eyes which were lined with kajal (sort of like eyeliner, but much scarier). My mother was beautiful as a young lady, but now… she wasn’t a young lady anymore which I think was something she wasn’t ready to accept. Someone needed to let her know that no matter how much she tried to conceal her wrinkles with her makeup she would still be the same forty year old mother of three underneath, but I wasn’t going to risk getting my ass beat (literally) just to tell her that.

“You’ve been accepted to Lahore University of Management Sciences.”
I nearly choked on my own spit. “I have?”
I wasn’t excited, it wasn’t the ‘ohmigod my life is complete I got accepted to a university’ surprised voice. It was more like ‘this can’t be happening to me, I failed all my classes on purpose, which admissions officer was smoking the cheap stuff when he read my application,’ voice.
“Yes,” she said excitedly, fixing her dupatta around her head and reached for a white envelope that sat on the dining table behind her. Great, her enthusiasm was enough for the both of us. She held out the envelope to me and I stared at it, hoping that somehow it would just burn away from the look I was giving it. But of course, life hated me so it stayed there in my mother’s outreached hand- in one piece.

I squinted at it not surprised to see that the envelope had been torn. In a Pakistani home there was no such thing as privacy, besides how else would she know I had been accepted? Of course, she had to open it. I could bet anything that my mother had had a slipper in her hand as she opened the letter, expecting another denial, and I would be expecting another squatting exercise that ended in my behind stinging.

I pulled out the contents inside the envelope, scanning the words on the page, groaning in my mind as my eyes landed on the ‘congratulations, you’ve been accepted’ line. I tried to suppress a frown and gave my mother a weak smile.

“Great,” I finally croaked, glancing at my mother who seemed happier than a fat boy when he heard an ice cream truck tune in the neighborhood. There was joy radiating from her body and for the first time in my life, I had decided to use my brain. “So, when am I leaving?”
My mother beamed at me, surprising me, as she pulled me into a hug. I stood, frozen in my spot, feet glued to the ground, body stiff. My mother hadn’t embraced me genuinely for years and it felt odd to be in her arms once again. It was frightening how comforting it felt.
“You make me proud,” she whispered into my hair. “You make me proud.”
Yeah right, mom.

And that was exactly why I was sitting on a train heading to Lahore two weeks later with my legs tucked underneath me and my eyes closed. I was meditating...well no I wasn’t, I was just copying the pose of a woman on the cover of some yoga magazine I had found sitting around when someone spoke from the aisle.

“Stressful life isn’t it?”

I popped open an eyelid and stared at the human that stood before me with an eyebrow raised. S***. I totally forgot I would have to deal with the human species. Oh no, it was a male human, my life was officially turning into a romantic Bollywood movie.
“Hi,” I drawled, before closing my eyes again, the greeting felt unusual on my tongue. The boy on the other hand chuckled, clearly amused. There was a thud and I opened my eyes again and glared at him. He had taken a seat across of me and was zipping open a bag, pulling out a book.
The boy caught eye of me glaring and dismissed the look on my face. “Hey, I’m Ahmed.”
I squinted at him just as the train began to jerk and steadily began to move. “I didn’t ask.”
Ahmed didn’t look special, actually I had no idea what special even looked like, but he had dark, thick hair that was cut short, strangely high eyebrows, and a toothy grin on his face.
“Well, pleasure to meet you, too,” Ahmed said, ignoring my snide remark and flipped open his book, immersed in the words in under ten seconds.
I was still gawking at him when he looked up from his reading. “Can…I help you?”
“You didn’t ask me my name,” I told him. Ahmed’s lips twitched and he began to nod slowly, before placing a bookmark in the page he had left off.
“Sorry,” Ahmed apologized, placing his elbow on his knee and rested his head in his palm. “What is your name?”
“Fatima,” I answered. About time. “Some call me Fatty, it’s because I eat a lot, and I’ll probably eat any food you brought along.”
Ahmed gaped at me and then burst into laughter that echoed through the mostly empty train. What was so funny? I was being serious here.
“Fatty,” he repeated, “Well, Fatty, I’m glad to say I didn’t bring any food along.”
“No,” I interjected and he quirked an eyebrow at me once again. What a fool, did he not understand some was only people I knew very well. “Only people I know can call me that.”
“You know me,” Ahmed pointed out, leaning back against the cushioned seat. “I’m Ahmed.”
“That’s not enough,” I insisted, tapping my fingers on my chin thoughtfully. I would freak this guy out so much that he would wish he had never even stepped into my little cubicle of happy isolation. “Where are you heading, stranger named Ahmed?”
Ahmed still had that amused expression on his face that I wanted to slap off really badly, but I controlled the urge by sitting on my hands.
“University,” he replied, running his fingers on the front cover of his book. “I’m going to Lahore University of Management Sciences. How about you?”
What the hell? This is turning into some sort of a cheesy romance novel and I was getting seriously annoyed. I tried to stop myself from cringing as I reached for my bag next to me in my seat and pulled out an unsharpened pencil (because I’m nice) and threw it at him.
“The hell was that for?”
“Why did you sit here?” I hissed through slit eyes. “Are you following me?”
“Are you crazy?” Ahmed said, picking up the pencil from where it landed next to him, and threw it right back at me.
“What the hell was that for?” I cried as the pencil hit the floor and rolled away towards its freedom.
“Because you’re crazy,” Ahmed informed me, before glancing out the window at the city that whizzed past. There was something about him that was freaking me out. I think what was freaking me out was why he wasn’t getting freaked out.
“I’m not crazy,” I told him and he rolled his eyes. “Hey! Don’t roll your eyes at me.”
It was true, though. Everyone I met had called me crazy. I think it was because I wasn’t like the rest, I stood out like a gorilla in a group of tigers. People tend to admire tigers more than gorillas and that was how it was in my family. My brothers were the tigers that were loved and I was the gorilla that sat alone, chewing at grass.
“Anything else your majesty?” Ahmed snorted before rolling his eyes again. I scowled at him, trying to forget what a failure I was. Ahmed chuckled. “What are you hiding?”
That surprised me. What was I hiding? I was hiding nothing. Right? Was I hiding anything? I don’t know.
“Nothing,” I said and Ahmed shook his head. “What?”
“I saw that look,” Ahmed insisted and I gave him a look. The hell was up with this guy?
“What look?”
“The look,” he answered.
“What’s the look?” I huffed and Ahmed gave me a sly grin before he got comfortable in his seat.
“The failure look,” Ahmed explained, “The look of pity. The ‘oh man my life sucks so much’ look. Save it, I won’t pity you. I’ll speak it as it is.”
“What s*** are you smoking?” I blurted. “What are you on about?”

There was a child’s wail that echoed from somewhere in the train and Ahmed licked his lips and I scrunched my nose at him. If he didn’t get up from this seat in the next ten minutes, I would admit defeat and change my spot.
“S*** happens to everyone,” Ahmed replied and stuck his head out in the aisle, glancing around, before positioning himself back in his seat. “Don’t be like that baby who cries and the only way it’ll stop crying is if someone will hold it.”

I gawked at him and Ahmed only smiled smugly, as if he knew he was right. Cheeky bastard, I’ll wipe that smug look off his face with my claws. Wait, I wasn’t a gorilla or a tiger so damn.

“What are you even trying to say?” I asked him curiously through gritted teeth and Ahmed rummaged through his bag, pulling out a water bottle. He placed the top of it against his lips and took long gulps before capping the bottle once again.

“Well…You’re feeling sorry for yourself,” he told me and I opened my mouth to say something but he held up a finger. For the first time in my life that finger made me shut up. “I don’t want to hear your sob story, I just want you to know there’s more to life than what you’re all upset about.”

“My uncle died,” I blurted, my heart thudding madly. He was scaring me. It was as if just by looking at my face he was able to read me like the book that sat next to him.
“And?” Ahmed cocked an eyebrow at me. “Are you dead? No, you’re not, so stop hanging on to something that won’t change. Your uncle won’t come back to life, but you can live the life you were blessed with. You’re not dead, so don’t act like you are.”
I was at a loss of words. He was dismissing my uncle like a father whose child constantly pesters him for a lollipop, the nerve.
“You don’t understand s***,” I hissed and Ahmed laughed wistfully.

“We all have a story behind our name,” he explained. “But sometimes it’s easy to read that story by someone’s attitude. You’re trying to hide from people because you fear you’ll find someone who may replace your deceased uncle.”

I was pretty sure the shock was evident on my face as I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. He was right. I just didn’t want to get to know anyone else, my uncle was that one man who filled my life with happiness and I was afraid the love I had for him would gradually dissipate if I met someone else to fill the hole he had left within me.
“How do you know this?” I croaked and Ahmed gave me a knowing smile.

“It’s obvious,” he said, before adding, “It’s all obvious, Fatty.”

I blinked. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re insane,” Ahmed corrected, a lopsided grin on his face. “And that is exactly why I took this seat. Now do yourself a favor.”
“What?” I asked hoarsely. Ahmed sat up and rummaged through his pockets before pulling out a phone.
He held it out to me. “Call someone you love, but never said the three words to,” he said. “Tell them you love them.”
I eyed the phone curiously and took it in my shaky hands before I dialed. There were two rings before someone spoke.
“Hello? Wait, Sameer, grandma is talking to someone. Wait! Sameer I will not give you Fatima’s Oreos, she loves those Oreos and no you cannot go in her room. That’s my girl’s room.”

“Hello,” I finally said in the phone, and glanced up at Ahmed who sat, arms crossed, facing the window with a smile on his face.

I felt the words slip out of my mouth as if they were begging to be said for years.
“I love you, mom.”