The mean streets of Zamzama or

One of the biggest problems of being a burger, that most people don’t know, is that we are slaves to our servants. I can hardly go out anywhere without worrying fretfully about my driver’s meals or him missing jamat. I do worry especially because if I don’t I’ll come across as an atheist.

So here I am standing on Zamzama, Lane 3 with my hands full of shopping bags trying to find my phone to call my driver.

Found it!

And there it goes… phone dropped, battery out and SIM under some loser’s motorcycle. I say a silent prayer for this phone because it’s a reinforcement while my BB is in the shop. I decide to go back inside the store which is no bigger than my closet but at least the beggars won’t bug me. I mean, do I look like I need a comb or someone who uses a zaarbund or azaarbund or whatever you call that shalwar drawstring?

I stand by the entrance of the shop so the salespeople won’t hover around me like I’m a klepto. I jam the SIM and battery into the I’m-too-old-for-this-shit phone and my D. One bell and straight to “Ap ka matluba number say jawab mosool nahi horaha.” All this effort for jawab mossol nahi horaha?! And finally a missed call. You know, for the 15 grand my dad pays him my driver is super stingy. “Jee baji main namaz parhaha tha, ap ajain.”

Dammit I spot him all the way at the end of the lane where the one-way becomes a three-way. At least he meets me halfway to take my bags. I pass by Ciao just as two guys come out to hear one of them say, “Karachi ki bachiyan bari tight hain,” in a thick Lahori accent. His friend is clearly from Karachi and clearly embarrassed since poondi was not on the good-time agenda. What else can you expect from a guy that has more cleavage than you made more visible by a V neck tee-shirt? I don’t have a reply I mean what do I say? “Thanks” or “+1 for Team Karachi!”?

Anyway I’m late for my facial and blow dry.