By Sonya Rehman

In all my piddling twenty-six years, I’ve never found myself in a dentist’s clinic. But recently, my mother thought it’d be wiser to have a general check-up before my departure for grad school this summer. 

And so, off I went to Dr. Rizwan, one of the finest dentist’s in Lahore. His clinic, situated in Gulberg has to be one of the most unusual clinics I’ve ever been to (not that I frequent clinics on a regular basis).

With jazz-boy Michael Buble cooing away in the background, fresh yellow flowers set in a massive vase – that sat atop a large sea-blue chest – and patches of warm sunshine reflecting off the walls and floor, I seriously thought I’d entered someone’s living room, rather than a ‘clinic’. 

Sometimes when I think of clinics I always imagine walls lined with tube lights, shiny, fake leather couches (in white or beige), polished shoes, sadistic needles, broken weighing-machines, buttoned up, prude-ish white jackets and chits of paper filled with diagnosis and medicine lists in square-ish, peculiar handwriting, that would make even the world’s best handwriting expert gawk in confusion. 

But Dr. Rizwan’s clinic was something else. Heck, I could’ve camped out there for the rest of my life. Okay, maybe that’s stretching it, but perhaps for half of my life. Atleast. 

After a general check-up (whilst sniffing in the fact that Dr. Rizwan’s gloves smelt like baby milk); I was advised by him to get braces for both my lower and upper teeth. Not that I have buck-teeth, but let’s just say that all those years of sucking my thumb (till I was 11) ‘upset the balance’. 

“Good, let’s get you those braces”, my mother had said. But I fought it out. “Look Ma, there’s absolutely no way I’m going to be walking the streets of New York for a year in those steely contraptions looking like Ugly Betty!” 

That did it. So it was decided that the braces would be put on hold until I returned, and for the time being, I’d get my teeth cleaned prior to getting my cavities filled up. 

The teeth cleaning bit, I was advised, was necessary to avoid the off-shoot of further cavities. 

Cool. So the following week, I walked back into Dr. Rizwan’s clinic in my favourite sweats and plopped down onto the dentist’s chair (what a fine invention). 

A young and attractive Dr. Sadia was due to clean my teeth, and so, while she put on her milk-scented gloves, we chatted away about New York – with my telling her what a lumbering paindu I was going to be once I landed at JFK International Airport (since I’d never set foot in another country, save for India), and her appeasing me about the fact that the ‘Village’ is going to be a lot of fun and that I’d take to it like a fish to water. 

Lowering my chair down, placing a spotlight of sorts smack in my face, and placing tissue paper around my neck (like a bib), I was told to; “Open wide please”.

“GaaaAaA-k-l-aaaAaAaaa”, I said confidently – trying to keep my cool as Dr. Sadia had placed a tube (which hissed and acted like a mini vacuum cleaner) into the side of my mouth. 

Wearing goggles, she set to work on my lower jaw with a horridly unsettling, frightening little device that made the most unsettlingly loud “RrrrRrRrrRrRRRR” sounds. 

Oh dear, I was in for the long innings. Help me God, I’d thought.

The little drill machine snaked in, out and around, rattling the very core of my lower jaw’s teeth. 

And sometimes, it’d scrape just a fraction of my gum. But I persisted and ground my hands together tightly. ‘Gotta be brave, gotta be brave now’, I told myself. In the distance, Michael Buble continued singing in an amorous and lazy fashion amidst the plinkety-plink of the piano. 

The dashing Mr. Buble

I wanted to throttle him, or, run into his chubby arms screaming; “Help me, for the love of God jazz-boy, save MEEEEEE.”

“HiiissssSsSsSSsSssSss”, the little tube went. It’d popped out of my mouth. Taking a thin pipe, my mouth was then sprayed by Dr. Sadia. I gurgled. Choked rather. 

“I feel like my teeth have just been treated to a mini car-wash”, I told her good-naturedly (trying to ease my frayed nerves). 

She smiled and then handed me a pair of goggles. “Wow, futuristic”, I had said excitedly, “um, what exactly are these for though?”

“Just in case the water sprays in your eyes”, she had replied. Okay not so futuristic anymore.

After a few minutes, Dr. Sadia then got to work on my upper jaw. I was compelled to yank open my mouth to make it easier for her, but for some reason, my mouth felt incredibly numb. The ‘puch puch’ kinda numb. 

“RrRrrRrRrrRrrrrrrrrrrr” the blasted drill machine shrieked. It slowly made its way to my horrified face. The mini vacuum cleaner in my mouth continued hissing. Michael Buble went on crooning. 

‘NOoOooOoOOooooooo’ I wanted to yell as my mind began doing pretty little convulsions. It dug into the crown of my teeth, pulling out anything that came in its way. Beads of sweat clung to my forehead (thought I’d throw that in for good measure), and I plucked away deliriously at my skin. 

If I was going to get up from the chair (once it was over) and prance down the road in a tutu, I couldn’t be blamed. 

“RrRrRrrrrr”, “hisss hisss hisss”, “gurgle”, “choke”, “sputter”, “RrrrrrRrR”, “mommy?”

And then, everything went blank and I woke up two hours later. No, I jest. There was suddenly, dead silence. “You can gargle now”, Dr. Sadia had said with a smile, pointing to a paper cup containing a pink liquid. “Phewie”, I’d said as I struggled to get up and reach for the cup. 

After I was done, she handed me a mirror, “Take a look”.

Looking at my face – which thankfully wasn’t contorted like Regan from ‘The Exorcist’ – I grinned, widely. 

What a fine set of teeth, I’d thought to myself, still grinning away at my reflection.

Walking out of Dr. Rizwan’s clinic with a spring in my step, I was told I had five cavities which had to be treated right away. 

“You bet”, I’d said – still grinning. As long as they had Michael Buble singing, I’d be game.  

By Sonya Rehman

It really amazes me how superstitious people can get about certain things. So much so that superstition itself has nestled itself so neatly and smugly into the fabric of our everyday lives. Superstitions such as walking under ladders, black cats crossing your path etc all breed bad luck. Okay, so I didn’t get run over after I encountered a black feline on the street and no I wasn’t squashed like a house fly under a ladder. So what gives? I think all of this is hogwash. Nonsense. Garbage. Mumbo jumbo. Gobbledygook. Okay enough of the synonyms.
An Aunt of mine known to my mother since elementary school came to visit us a few weeks ago from the City of the Sea (Karachi of course). I’ve always loved this Aunt of mine. She’s hilariously funny (a real riot), eccentric and an incredibly strong woman. Anyway to cut a long story short, she told us about this ‘holy man’ and how pious, virtuous and honourable a person he was. She also said that he had this amazing power to heal and help people in need. Since she sounded so convincing I immediately became excited and the following day we decided to make a trip down to the ‘holy man’. After picking up two more of my Aunt’s friends on the way we chug-chugged it down to his office situated somewhere near Choeifat. The women were certain about the fact that some malevolent cousin of theirs or perhaps a devious mother-in-law had done black magic on them, which is why some suffered from migraines on Tuesdays, backaches on Thursdays and diarrhoea on Mondays. ‘Maybe a little exercise and Atkins would do the trick?’ I offered quietly. Everyone looked at me stunned, including my mother (Et tu Mama?) Anyway so there we were on dirt roads with open ditches bumpity bumping (Yay! Who needs JoyLand when we have roads like these?) and speeding our way to the holy man. My Aunt kept screeching that we were getting late and that he’d end up leaving. ‘This is black magic I tell you! The broken road and, the traffic…these are all signs! The powers of evil work against us!’ squealed one of the women in the car. ‘Welcome to the third world’ I muttered and closed my eyes.

After an excruciating half hour we finally reached destination holy man. His ‘office’ was on the top floor of a building mid-way in construction. My heart pitter patted as we made our way upstairs. My heart sank when my Aunt stopped outside a bright silver door and knocked. ‘Bizarre’ I thought and we all walked in after being greeted by one of the holy man’s helpers. The inside of his office resembled the inside of a spaceship and there in the corner sat a young, fat and dark mullah with the most beady eyes I had ever seen. He was sitting behind a desk with a computer on it, some websites were open which I couldn’t really make out from where I was sitting but I definitely got a glimpse of his MSN list. ‘Ah, wonderful’ I thought, ‘a holy man in a space-ship-like-office with a hotmail account.’  I think he noticed me sizing him up and anyone could’ve told from my expression that I thought this was all a load of b.s. He then turned his attention on my Aunt and asked her how she was, addressing her as ‘sister’ whilst I dug my nails into the couch. My Aunt talked about awful headaches and other ailments while he nodded sympathetically and cooed ‘Oh so sad…tsk tsk…this is definitely the work of black magic’ which made me want to scrape his tongue with sand paper and box his ears all the more. My Aunt’s other friend then told the fat-tub-of-pseudo-holy-lard that her husband wasn’t giving her any attention and that she was sure that her mother-in-law had a hand in this. He nodded furiously and said ‘sister not to worry bring me one of his garments, a pair of socks or a shirt perhaps and I’ll sort your problem out. Within one week your husband will be cured’.  ‘Yeah better still a nice sweaty underwear!’ I quipped into my mother’s ear. I really couldn’t believe this guy. Here he was preaching religion and piousness (with his MSN and Orkut getting it off with some Brazilian bimbo), making my Aunt (along with probably countless more women) pay through her nose for his little potions and tonics and promises of doing a bit of abracadabra here and a bit of abracadabra there, and voila the problem would be extinguished? Who was he kidding?
I think many of us take the line of least resistance. We’d rather blame our strife, our troubles and our unhappiness on a bunch of senseless superstitions because it’s just plain easy.
It’s just plain old easy to get ripped off from quack doctors and assume the backseat in our lives.

Sunday, Daily Times

By Sonya Rehman

Ever wondered what makes Lahori women check each other out so much? It’s the weirdest feeling ever I tell you. Especially when you catch a bunch of straight chicks staring at you toe upwards.  Okay so maybe I’m in orbit half of the time but I really don’t notice these things until much later.

Later, being about a month ago as I had sat across from Ayesha at a local restaurant as she wolfed down a cheeseburger whilst I played hockey with my fork and what was a sorry excuse for a bowl of Thai vegetarian noodles. “I want the Thai noodles without chicken, beef or prawns please” I had told the waiter earlier as he looked down at me frowning and wrinkling his bulbous pink pathani nose at the same time – not being able to fathom how a Lahori could survive without eating things that had faces.

So there we were killing an hour or so on a languid Friday when Miss X happened to have passed by our table giving me quite a dreadful stare. Hanging onto a skinny fellow’s arm who’s hairdo reminded me of a mix between Sonic the Hedgehog and Michael Bolton, she sized me up, flicked her long ponytail over her shoulder, arched her eyebrows and sashayed out the door. Wanting to pounce on her and smack her forehead silly with a Thai noodle, I decided otherwise. I have a reputation in this city you see. Sitting back and fuming I had pointed to her rather generous Punjabi rear asking Ayesha what exactly that was all about. “Insecurity you poop”, she had stated politely between mouthfuls, “they’re all like that. Don’t you get it, it’s all about the mine’s-better-than-yours-thing”.  Mine’s-better-than-yours-thing? The massive rear perhaps? Or was it the walking-talking-law-of-diminishing-returns-I-spent-three-hours-in-the-loo-to-look-just-like-a-hedgehog-on-magic-mushrooms male friend? Bah!

I was intrigued. And so, after that day, I made it a point to notice being noticed. By women of course. I noted women in the car giving me the eye, more so than my brother (much to his repulsion) as we squabbled over which chick looked at whom first and for how long. What fun I had! I flashed them all. Moronic smiles that is (you little pervert). Smiles that bellowed ‘damn right mine’s better than yours!’ as they looked away pooh-poohing all haughty-faced and offended.  Not that I became excessively narcissistic or anything, just thoroughly amused…okay okaaay… it did wonders for my ego. Talk about free ego therapy minus the shrink snoring his arse off while you cribbed.

So why do some women play the whole ‘mine’s-better-than-yours’ game anyway? What’s with the hostility? The competition? What’s to be so cranky about if the girl across the hall in your workplace has better dress sense that you do? Has the media made us this insecure? This self-doubting? Has it really reduced us to little nail biting green-eyed monsters?

Going cloth shopping is also quite another experience. Once, the minute I sourced out a fabulous lawn print ten other women pounced on the table I was at, like ninja’s hiding in the woodwork and started tugging furiously at the cloth. Back off fat turds! It’s MINE! And what about when some women finger the clothes you’re wearing with deep thoughtful expressions on their faces and then, once they’re done invading your personal space, they finally inquire where you had bought it from. Oh, I swiped it off a Brazilian lap dancer…where do you think moron?

Allow me to deviate for a bit; something that takes the Mickey out of me out is the incessant smooching on both cheeks by someone you hardly know. Yes, I can understand giving affectionate hugs to your best friends, but what’s with doing it the Italian way (planting two hard kisses on either sides of the cheek)? I recall some chick I barely knew in third grade who had run up to me one day many years later, at a shopping mall screeching “arey januuuuuuuuu! It’s youuuuuuuuuuuuu” and kissing me ferociously. Which reminds me, have you ever been air smooched? Yes, that’s right ‘air smooched’ – what’s the deal with that? Talk about severe abhorrence. It almost makes you want to tell the person to quit beating around the bush and whack you already.

Always remember though, if you become aware of someone from your very gender checking out your clothes, shoes, physique and/or face that’s probably the best compliment you’ll ever get. Unless of course they swing both ways. Because seriously, you can’t take your friends and partners seriously when they tell you you’re looking thin (when in true fact you know you feel like Barney) and when they tell you you’re hair looks ‘fine’ (when in true fact you know it’s time to buy a toupee). Hooha!

Sunday, Daily Times
 

By Sonya Rehman

It was that time of the year again. The very much-awaited and anticipated Valentines Day. Gag. Choke. Gasp. Retch. Yes, my little ones it was a day when past relationships were to be raked up by Bridget Jones’ all over the country sitting on their bums and eating themselves sick as an old soppy number played in the background giving rise to sweet and joyful thoughts of kicking some ex-boyfriend butt. But oh, the birds still twittered outside and the sun shone just about right – not too harsh and not too light.
I was jolted out of bed, disrupting a wonderful dream where I ran around the margallas with Jude Law as he did the bhangra with my dupatta (no, I’m kidding) to the shrill, panicked bells of my phone flying off the hook. Diving across the room like cat woman (yeah yeah), I had snatched up the receiver and yelled out a ‘hello’. “Why! Why me Sonya whyyyyyyyy! Oh the shame!” “And a jolly good morning”, I said, “to you too Narissa” as I had plonked back down on the rear end of the bed and groaned. Narissa had just come out of a tumultuous relationship and I being the mother-hen-solver-of-all-problems-aunt-agony-extraordinaire had the pleasure of listening to her raves and her rants about a certain someone who had an issue with commitment after five years of playing ‘house house’. After calming my girlfriend down and promising to rub his tongue with sand paper the next time our paths met, I had hung up the phone whilst she stuck pins (in places too inappropriate to mention) into a voodoo doll (no, I’m kidding). And that, is how, my day had started.

I’ve never really understood why Valentine’s Day is such a big issue really and please don’t label me as a stick-in-the-mud but I honestly believe there are other ways in which couples could show their appreciation for one another. Valentine’s Day in Pakistan makes love look so cheesy what with those big desi teddy bears holding up hearts with messages such as ‘all 4 u’, ‘be my sweetheart’ and ‘u r my dear’ plastered all over them owing to insomnia due to nightmares the night before of teddy’s heaving around your bedroom with sharp little daggers shrieking ‘be mine, mine, MINE!’ Not funny! Then again, maybe I am being too harsh but don’t you think we all go a little (understatement) overboard when it comes to ‘celebrating’ this sweet (toothache) and merry occasion?
 I remember way back during my school days the kids would set up fake ‘jails’ so that you could get your crush locked up for a couple of hours till they bailed themselves out. Talk about a whole lotta love! Now since this is a very balanced article I’ll quit the Valentine bashing for a bit, and take this opportunity to tell you about this interesting conversation that I had the chance of overhearing at someone’s house the other day about whether or not V-day should be celebrated or not. The oldies shook their heads in disapproval and said that it was extremely shameful as it bred way too much modernity for comfort. One Aunty piped up, “I think”; said she putting her index finger to her chin and scratching it thoughtfully, “it’s terrible as it makes other children who aren’t in relationships, want it desperately all due to peer pressure.” “Yes it’s absolutely appalling”, said an Uncle and then stating passionately, “the West has invaded us I tell you!” And there far in the distance their children sat glued to a 29-inch screen watching B4U with Indian models getting jiggy with it to a racy number in the rain and that too dressed all in white. The hypocrisy of it all makes me want to scream really, is it fashionable to sit around and grouse about the influx of other cultures seeping into ours? When we ourselves take pleasure in mirroring them? Funny little shallow bunch we are don’t you think?
Ali, a friend of mine, wittily coined V-day as Valium Time’s day (thus the name for this article) and yes he too is single – cradling the shards of whatever is left of his heart after a very painful break-up. It’s weird though; I realized a majority of the people I knew were single this time around…maybe fat old Cupid was getting slack on the job. So anyway, my 14th came and went like any other day and I realized I had substituted my social life for my new puppy – who I’d like to think of as a cotton fluff with attitude and a tail. I realized then, that being involved with someone is not a ‘fad’. Your boyfriend/partner is not a fashion accessory that you can whip out of your purse like your favourite stick of lip-gloss you know? Later on in the evening Narissa called again, but this time sounding sober and much more in control and right then, in the midst of our conversation I remembered what a famous woman’s liberationist had once said: “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle”. I told Narissa and she laughed. Valentine’s Day, for her, didn’t seem so bad after all.

Sunday, Daily Times