Chapter 44
44
My first kiss had been nothing short of a dream.
It had taken place amid music, dance, history, art and the celebration of love.
Things with Karim felt so right , and I’d melted when we’d both expressed exactly that to each other: You’re perfectly right for me. Those words were now imprinted on my soul. So when he’d closed the distance between us, I hadn’t held back any longer.
I wanted him.
And I wanted him to know it.
No more boundaries or overthinking or hesitating.
His lips were so soft, meeting mine again and again, leaving me wanting more. His smooth hands caressed my neck, hair, waist, back, until it had become impossible to think about anything but his touch.
And when he’d kissed my neck, and my lips, moved his tongue against mine, tightened his grip on my body … it was ecstasy.
But, of course, things could never go right for me – there was always a catch. Something to pull me down to reality whenever I dared to be happy. I still felt the shock of that flash; my life could literally be over because of a single picture. In my community, once a girl’s reputation was brought into question, it left irreversible damage. And since I’d been caught with none other than Karim Malik, it would likely reach an international audience.
I wanted to check my phone to see if anything was already circulating online, but I simply didn’t have the guts. My hands started shaking the moment I picked it up.
Group family photos were being taken on the main stage and Karim was smiling broadly, completely at ease. The photographer said something, and they all laughed – the perfect image of a beautiful, happy family.
Either Karim had a good poker face, or he was genuinely already over it. I knew he was doing the right thing for his family, but I still felt resentment surge over me.
Karim wouldn’t be affected by this photo at all.
Everyone had seen footage of him kissing Chloe Clark – and other girls he’d had flings with. His family didn’t care about his liberal lifestyle. If these photos got out, it would simply look like he’d hooked up with a new girl at his brother’s wedding and was finally moving on from his complicated ex.
But it would destroy me. The guilt was already becoming overwhelming.
‘Zara,’ said a voice.
I didn’t turn towards it, didn’t even respond. I was frozen, unable to do anything but feel the panic inside me grow and grow and grow.
A hand nudged me.
‘Hey,’ Morowa said, bringing her face close to mine and giving me a comforting smile. ‘Are you OK?’
I felt the urge to cling to her. Instead, I simply nodded, putting on a brave face, even smiling a little.
‘I’m leaving now. Do you want a lift home?’
I stood instantly.
She came closer to talk to me more easily over the loud music. ‘You can stay if you want, it’s up to you. I’m not sure whether your parents gave you a curfew –’
‘I want to leave now.’ I allowed her to guide me to the exit.
Karim was still occupied, his eyes fixed on the camera, and so he didn’t see me leave. I couldn’t face saying goodbye to anyone.
It was a quiet drive home. My phone was on silent, but it vibrated on and off throughout the journey: missed calls from Saliha, Aisha baji and, surprisingly, even one from Imran. I threw my phone to the bottom of my bag. I could barely breathe. Surely this string of calls was an indication that people were starting to find out …
Arriving home, I noticed the living-room lights were on.
The second I unlocked the door, I knew something was terribly wrong. The air felt suffocating. My gut instinct told me to turn around and leave – but where could I run to?
A hushed, heated conversation was taking place. All I wanted to do was go to bed and not rise again until this had all blown over, but the living-room door whipped open, sharp as a lash.
‘Come here, Zara.’
One look at my mum’s red-rimmed eyes and I knew – the photo had already reached my parents.
I followed her in.
Dad was standing there, staring daggers at me. I didn’t have the courage to meet either of my parents’ eyes, couldn’t even find my voice to say salaam. Every part of me was trembling with dread. I felt tremors skitter down my limbs, making me weak at the knees.
‘Is this the day we raised you for?’ Dad barked in Urdu. ‘Was this your way of showing the world the values we gave you?’
‘This is what happens when you give a girl too much freedom,’ Mum spat. ‘From the way you started answering back and dressing, I should’ve known something like this was going to happen. You shameless wretch.’
She sauntered over to me and waved her phone in my face. I saw screenshots an aunty had sent her on WhatsApp. Not just one photo, but image after image of me kissing Karim Malik, all taken from Mr Ex’s blog. Close-ups.
Sensuality and desire oozed out of the photos so clearly that I felt like people were seeing me naked. It was humiliating, degrading.
My heart shattered.
The most precious, passionate moment of my life had become either entertainment or disgrace for the world to consume. I attempted to say something, to somehow find the words to explain.
‘Mum –’
It took me a second to realize she had slapped me.
The sting came gradually and then all at once. I faced her with tears crowding my eyes, feeling utterly helpless.
‘ Besharam ladki ,’ she hissed.
Shameless girl – the words crowded the chamber of my mind, where I knew they’d echo forever. It was obvious she was only getting started. I held my breath in anticipation of the next blow. I just didn’t know whether it was going to be physical or verbal.
‘We’ve never been so embarrassed. Everyone we know is seeing our daughter do this . No one has ever dishonoured our family like this before.’
She looked me up and down with such disgust that I felt like absolute filth. I’d crossed a boundary with her today. Usually, I saw her love and concern gleaming behind her admonishment. Not this time.
‘You’ve left your own father unable to speak to his relatives without drooping his head in shame. It would’ve been better if you’d just died.’
‘Mum!’
She slapped me sharply with the back of her hand, and Dad harrumphed in the background as though pleased. This time, I didn’t bother facing her again. I turned away from my parents and let the tears fall.
‘Don’t you call her that any more,’ Dad roared at me. ‘And definitely don’t call me your father. You’re dead to us. The doors of this house are closed to you. Make sure you don’t show us your face in the morning, or ever again.’
‘You’re lucky that all we’re doing is disowning you and kicking you out,’ Mum added. ‘If I was caught doing anything like this, my dad and brothers would’ve killed me.’
They walked past me, went up the stairs to their bedroom and closed the door behind them.
I don’t know how long I stood there, feeling the life drain out of me. Somehow, I eventually made it to my room and finally looked at my phone. I ignored all the missed calls and texts and decided to open my social media so that I could have an idea of the damage …
It was … everywhere.
The photos and video clips of me and Karim kissing were plastered all over Mr Ex’s socials, with engagement so high the images were being pushed by the platforms. It was practically going viral. Memes and slow-motion romantic edits of it were already popping up.
Even though I knew it wasn’t a good idea, I flicked through the comments section.
Everyone seemed to have an opinion about me. About every inch of my appearance – my features, my clothing, my hair, my jewellery, my weight, my height, my skin colour. And most of it was nasty. Apparently I was the awful, ugly homewrecker who had come in between Chlarim, the perfect couple who would always be in love and were fated to be together forever.
It got worse, more real , when I came across the comments left by people I knew personally: students from my school, girls I’d taken mosque classes with, local aunties and their sons or daughters. Words like slut , shameless , disgusting girl swam before my eyes again and again, filling me with a sharp, nauseating anxiety.
Before this, I’d practically been non-existent on social media. Nothing had prepared me for this onslaught. Goosebumps covered my entire being as I read each painful, awful thing directed at me. I’d never felt so exposed, vulnerable, hated.
I didn’t know how to deal with it.
People had started to discover my official Instagram account. It was on private and I only had about a hundred followers, but in the past hour I’d received five thousand friend requests.
This was getting too much for me.
There was only one person who could advise me right now, for he’d been through all the highs and lows of social media himself, and he was literally going through all of this with me.
I tried calling Karim.
He didn’t answer.
Feeling completely stranded and broken, I curled into a ball on my bed and bawled my eyes out. The darkness that always seemed to linger around the edges of my life was devouring me whole right now, eating away all traces of hope and light left in me.
The voices in my head kept repeating what seemed to be the final truth about my existence: I was a shameless, disgusting girl who’d destroyed everything, who deserved to die. Things would never be OK again, not after this.
My phone started ringing. The tears blurred my vision so much that I could barely see anything as I picked it up.
‘Karim,’ I cried into it. ‘I really need you right now.’
A deep, soothing voice answered. ‘It’s Imran.’