Don't Remind Me

Chapter 1: The Big Fish

Now:
I smile plastic as I pose for the hundredth photograph. I can almost hear my mother in my ear, "Chin up Layla. No teeth. We're Hayats. You're running a safe house, not selling used cars."
I loathed the media from the deepest darkest corners of my black little heart, but Hiraeth (My Safe-house) needed all the media attention I could possibly gather. On occasion, it actually helped that I was practically raised under camera flashes and over enthusiastic media personnel.

"Layla, is it true that you don't wear your mother's designs anymore? If not, then what designer are you wearing?" A semi-famous talk-show host shoves her microphone in my face. 

Red carpet talk is funny; 

What are you wearing? 

Oh, I'm wearing Deepak Perwani...The shoes are Jimmy Choos...

Visions of a grown man draped around my neck danced inside my head, and It took supreme effort not to roll my eyes as I would have done years ago. What does my wardrobe have to do with domestic abuse victims?

"I'm really not brand conscious. I wear whatever my sister shoves into my closet. Labels don't define me, or my cause." I smile politely as I move from the red carpet, towards the hotel ballroom. I know I'll have to face Pareeshae's wrath when they quote me in the Sunday paper. My best friend and Co-director of Hiraeth is very serious about PR. 

"Give them what they want Layla. We need the money, and they are simply a means to an end." She had insisted on buying my ridiculously costly outfit for tonight. The knee length black silk undershirt was paired with nude straight pants. The traditionally embroidered long jacket added tasteful color to the ensemble. My hair was stylishly cut and blow-dried to fall dramatically over my left shoulder, light brown highlights made it glisten. My soft brown eyes were tastefully made up to look huge.Four inch heels compensated for my 5 Feet of midgetness. They wanted Sanam Hayat's daughter, and They got her. They is by far, my least favorite pronoun. 

Charity galas were seemingly extravagant, and superfluous, but for an organization like ours, they were a necessary evil. They generated a ton of money for charity causes like mine. All the big fish of Pakistani society came together for photo ops, tasteless food, wardrobe malfunctions, and the occasional scandal. How else are we supposed to make sure we are human anymore? If we don't bid outrageously on crudely made pottery pieces made by handicapped orphans from Sawat?
The glitterati of Karachi city came forward every few months, armed with Birkin Handbags and Armani neckties, to save the less fortunate.

There were talent showcases from orphan homes, and special-needs schools. As a goodwill gesture, they allowed all the registered charities to invite a few "Small Fish" to the big pond. They were seated in a separate section, all the burn victims, polio victims, flood victims, orphans, DNS patients....I always refused the offer on behalf of my own women. We didn't need to remind them of their misfortune quite so bluntly. 

I spotted Pareeshae directing the media towards our showcase wares for the evening. Since we have a lot of refugee women from rural areas of Pakistan they were extremely adept at ethnic handicrafts. Beautifully embroidered shirts, woven jewelry, beaded wall decorations, and chic clutches were a few of many small items we were auctioning today. The crown jewel was a hand woven carpet from one of our acid-burn victims, Shehrazade. Her intricate hand work was a dazzling work of artistic tapestry. We were hoping for it to fetch close to half a million Rupees. 

I waved at her when she spotted me. She nervously looked away before hurrying towards my side. 

"You're late." She poked me, and I shrugged.