Forever Amber.

You couldn’t call her naïve, no. Simple maybe…no, not simple either, more like… blindfolded. Willingly imbibed, sort of. Somewhat like a coke whore, who knows what she’s doing is wrong but she can’t help herself. Of course it didn’t help that eventually on her way down to rock bottom she was known as a coke whore as well.

The reasons it hurt as much as it did wasn’t because I knew her in a romantic capacity once, but because I respected her. That’s not common or called for when it comes to women when you’re a horny teenager and she’s eagerly swapping spit with you in the back seat of your car outside Zakir’s. But I did respect her. Because she quite simply commanded respect. It was in the way she graciously smiled at her friends when they were making obvious fools of themselves. In the way she spelt her name. The way she would never roll her own joints and get out of it with a simple shrug of the shoulders. She never preached or poached or did much of anything that bears the curse of a stereotypical personality.

She was so strikingly different from any one else I had known up to that point that it was impossible for me not to be enthralled by her. Me, the infamously overwrought teen, who believed himself to be above and beyond his peers by reason of premature maturity. Me, who believed that only a woman older than me could understand me enough to claim my love. Fake and infantile me who didn’t know his ass from his elbow when compared to her. For the me that I was back then she was Aphrodite and Ophelia all rolled up into one gorgeous package with black hair and brown eyes.

It wasn’t love, though. Not by a long shot. More like the interest one develops for a good book, the thrill of the discovery, so to speak. I just simply wanted to know her. Desperately, I wanted to be known to her. I cannot even today say why that was, but I know it wasn’t love nor infatuation. I never even truly cared. But I still feel the same lurch in my throat today as I did back then when I think of her. Like the first time you drink booze just because you want to know what the big deal is. That’s how it was, quite simply quite simple.

Initially, she was with my best friend from back then. And I was with hers. But from the moment she stepped out of the car after we rear ended them on the Canal, I’m sure we both knew that it was actually us who needed to know, needed to relate, to understand.

And one night at Zakir’s, we ended up making out.

The transfer was quite amicable really, her friend was a slut and my friend more willing to comply, and just like that during an impromptu picnic near Sozo we had swapped and never a foul word was uttered by anyone. I suppose all four of us understood that we had gotten the coupling wrong the first time around.

The couple of months we dated for weren’t without their share of teenage-angst ridden episodes. My dad caught me talking to her on the phone and didn’t throw a fit; this, of course, was more educational than distressing. I ran away from home for some stupid reason that is suddenly not even important enough to remember and she came along for the overnight escapade to Islamabad. We broke up as soon as we got back to Lahore though. It just seemed like the right thing to do. That was the best break up ever, no residual bitterness to bear even for a second and no regrets. Atleast not then. The regrets were to come later.

Amber, was almost tailor made to self destruct. I could’ve sworn 8 years ago that she would die young. That she would succumb to all the sins and all the ills that were out there waiting for a victim. But still, her grace, her subtle simplicity, her demeanor, her decorum made me wish for otherwise.

She was one of those neo-modern, progressive Islamist, spiritual but not religious, romantic but not idealistic, simple but not plain, too hip to follow fashion, to conscientious to denounce it; bronze lipstick with kajal instead of eye shadow, halter tops with glass bangles, wrap-around skirts with payals, hush puppies and open toed sandals kinda gal. The kind who have had enough exposure of the western world to be able to successfully mold it into their very desi life styles. She wore pjs to Halloween parties, and hawai chappals to weddings. Got away with every social hiccup with a smile that could charm a stone. Eyes that grew large with excitement and shrunk with pleasure. Forever tinged amber, as if to justify her name, amidst the hereditary brown.

Hair that was either a jumble of tangled curls like enraged vines, or smooth and soft like strands of china silk. She swam, and tread-milled and lifted weights. And would consume a 1 pound texas steak served medium rare in 6 bites.

Hated ice cream and flowers. Too sweet, to fragrant. Loved shoes and watches; Too intrinsic, too important. She could make friends out of cut throat enemies. And enemies out of lovers. Always hurtling from unprecedented care to mind boggling lack of care towards the same people. Never asked for a favor and never declined to perform one.

There were at any given time as many people who were willing to die for her as there were who were willing to kill her.

Two years ago I found out that she had died. Over dosed on some drug. Coke most probably, since the last time she was mentioned to me was in the capacity of the easiest chick in Lahore giving it up for hits of crack to anyone who happened to have some when she craved it.

A little bit of me mourned her death, the rest was just in shock. Not a shock borne of surprise though, more like the one you feel for a long ailing relative. It hurt like hell and I mourn her still but all I can do is pray for peace for her soul.

All those who remember her now probably mention her in hushed tones with smirks on their faces and disgust beneath. But to me Amber will always remain the rebel without any cause grander than her sheer tenacity towards spelling her name the way she did.

As I said, she was tailor made for self destruction, way too perfect to really exist in this imperfect world and therefore honor bound to play the unwitting victim to the evils most of us either learn to avoid or master.

.I never knew the how and why of her plunge into depravity, I never even tried to find out. I wish now that I had known what the reddened eyes and the weight loss and the sudden willingness to have sex indicated. But I didn’t and I left leaving her not stranded as much as abandoned. It never even occurred to me that she would need a hand to hold through life, to guide her past the pit falls strewn across every day. From a mantle she fell and broke into too many pieces to be put back together. But she’d falling for a while, she’s been breaking for years. Whether it was uncaring parents or selfish lovers or friends who cashed in her grandeur for a hike up the vicious social ladder are to blame may never be clearly known but if nothing else, I hope and pray that all those who ever knew her, ever cared for her feel not the least bit of pity for her but fear for themselves. For if there is any justice in this fucked up world of gods and demons and vice and virtue, all of them, all of us deserve to suffer.

Rest in peace A, I wish I’d loved you.