We stopped for an early dinner at a Lebanese restaurant where the kebabs were massive and under-seasoned but tasted delicious in the miserable weather. I ordered a pint of oatmeal stout and began telling Wali about the summer Osama started petitioning boys for sex.
Did he petition you, Wali asked with an exaggerated wink.
I shook my head.
Do you think he had an inkling about you all this time you were friends?
I don’t know, I said, adjusting in my seat. Something odd did happen in that summer that makes me wonder. When the exam results came in August, we had to collect our report from the principal’s office. Osama didn’t show up to avoid running into Aslam and that lot. He hadn’t done so well in his O-levels anyway—all B’s and only 3 A’s. The admin had made an enormous flex banner of “High Achievers” and hung it down the school’s façade. My face was at the top—6 A*s and 4 A’s. Osama’s was nowhere to be seen. After getting my results, I went straight to three of the top schools in the city and discussed their A-levels admission policies. At two of them, I was assured my grades would secure me a full scholarship.
Clever little wanker, Wali teased, and grabbed a piece of fresh lavash. He wasn’t looking at me, and as I talked, he busied himself in making a kebab wrap.
That evening, Osama called me from an unknown number to congratulate me. The summer rains had messed up our landlines. I heard his voice riding on a sea of static. I can barely hear you, I said.
I’m traveling in Swat with my family, he said. Signals are weak here. And the river’s very noisy.
That’s why I couldn’t come pick my report from school, he said after a pause.
I’m sorry, I said.
Oh, I’ll get all my exams rechecked, he replied quickly. They must’ve made a mistake.
Osama, I said, now that our lives had severed. Osama, what are all the boys saying? That you’ve been texting them? Did they come by your house?
I thought the line had dropped but I could hear the static. Or maybe it was the sound of the river. Hello? I said. Osama?
Don’t act like you don’t know, he said quietly. I ground the receiver into my ear. I can still remember his voice. You did this to me, he said. You depraved me. You ruined me.
I was stunned. I asked, Osama, why did you call me then?
You corrupted my mind, he went on, his voice faltering a little. How would I have known about these things without those books you gave me? How could have I gotten any of those ideas if I hadn’t read The Wild Boys? Those books weren’t written for children. Now you’re acting like you don’t know. You showed me what to do. People like you always hide behind others.
Oh dear. He thought he was onto you, Wali said.
I’ve wondered what he meant. Was he suggesting I was also attracted to men and was hiding it? If so, then was he accusing me for protecting myself or for not protecting him? What infuriated me was that he didn’t blame those other boys who tortured him. He didn’t condemn society. No, he blamed me. And with such a flimsy accusation! Everyone else read those books, too. I read them as well, Wali, but I never thought to point fingers for not having a savior in the world.
Well, obviously he was trying to get at something else, Wali said, biting through his kebab. What did you say to him?
I asked him what he meant about me hiding. What did he think I was hiding? Osama wouldn’t elaborate. I shouldn’t have called him a gandu, but I was fuming. I cut the call and left the receiver hanging so he couldn’t call back. I didn’t want to hear one more word coming out of his mouth. All night I stayed up composing speeches in my mind, directed at him, about “people like you.” I tried calling him the next day, but he had blocked my number.
What would you have said to him if he’d picked up? Wali asked. Now he was looking at me.
I’d have said, People like me are smart and keep quiet. How else do people like me survive? I had been taught by my small uncle to stay quiet and bear it. How could Osama know that? He had everything. And then he—“people like him”—have the gall to blame their misfortunes on others. I wanted him to own that he was horny and wanted to get fucked, that he knew the consequences of his actions and went ahead with his plans nonetheless.