Alisha slung her school bag over her shoulder, sighing as she threw the newspaper back onto the kitchen counter. There was a column in the paper that held details and stories about molestation, abuse or rape. Today, there was a five line report of a case of molestation and abuse of a woman in the fringes of the city. She skimmed it and clucked to herself. No family in this small, conservative part of Lahore ever talked about these things and she wasn’t concerned enough to bring it up. She set off down the narrow gullies of her mohalla to reach the main road from where she would take the bus to college. As she walked cautiously past the tiny shops, a group of teenage ruffians with nothing better to do, began to catcall at her, eyeing her with unpleasant grins that revealed paan stained teeth. A slight frown creased her forehead as she hurried past. She had put up with this before - it was no big deal. After all, it was only inevitable; was what her mother had said. 

                                                            * * * 

Alisha clutched her plate with a grip that turned her knuckles white as she walked down the aisle of the canteen. Everywhere, people turned to stare at her, glancing at one another and exchanging whispered remarks. She turned her face down, letting her damp hair fall on her face, concealing the hot angry tears that crept out of her eyes. She picked the last table in the corner and sat down to eat, facing the wall. She remembered Imran’s face, one that she could never forget. 

A month ago, she’d found him in the library, his usual gang of friends missing. As he’d looked up at her, she couldn’t unhook her gaze off his deep brown eyes. She smiled to herself, cheeks flushing a light pink. The next day, she searched for his face in the hallways, and found convenient circumstances to talk to him. Imran always had a few gruff-looking boys following him around everywhere, making it extremely hard to talk to him. As days passed, her secret admiration swelled in her heart.

One day, she found herself walking behind Imran. He was alone, again. She felt a strong surge of delight as she followed him down this hallway to the next. Soon, it was only the two of them in an empty corridor. Suddenly, Imran swung around and walked briskly toward her. He took her by the elbow and pulled her towards a door. Too shocked to resist, Alisha gave in to this abrupt and uncomfortable confrontation. Imran threw open the door of an old storage room and flung her inside, slamming the door behind him. He moved towards her and cornered her. He looked into her eyes and could restrain himself no more. He held her face firmly and leaned in, holding her in a vice-like grip. Alisha couldn’t move and, unable to wrench her face away from his, could make no sound. Imran attempted to rip her white muslin kurta. 

Horrified and too scared to move, Alisha was desperately trying to choke down her sobs. Imran spun her around and pushed her against the wall. She felt a shot of pain at the side of her head. All of a sudden, as if realising for the first time what was happening, she cried out for help, her screams echoing helplessly in the room. She tried to push Imran away, but she wasn’t strong enough, she thought. Anger replaced dismay at being treated like this, and she lashed out, hurling her limbs at random, hoping that would help. Her first blow hit Imran’s nose and he fell to the ground, clutching it. Alisha looked around and, spotting an old curtain rod, lifted it and spun around to face Imran. She threw the rod at his head. It hit his head with a sickening thud and he crumpled to the ground. The rod clattered to the floor, its sound eerily echoing in the room. 

Alisha stood there shocked, staring at his motionless body. What had she done? Her heartbeat quickened as she headed toward the door. She burst out of the storage room and ran blindly down the hallway. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead and trickled down her nose. She felt disgusted. She touched herself where Imran had, as if trying to undo what he had done. Just thinking about it made bile rise at the back of her throat. She slowed down to a jog, and finally came to a stop outside the Dean’s office. 

The next minute, Alisha Hassan Khan, 19 years of age, found herself sitting on a cold, steel chair in the dean’s office, narrating the incident. The dean, Sayeed Ali Khan, listened to her skeptically, his expression placid. A teary Alisha took deep breaths as she came to terms with what had happened. Sayeed’s pudgy cheeks trembled as he looked at her with contained anger. “And what made you follow him?”, he asked, his voice rising, a stress on every word. Alisha didn’t know what to say. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t expel you”, his face was livid now. “You have tarnished the reputation of this institute. Get out!”. It was all Alisha could bear. She ran. 

                                                          * * * 

The following week a funeral was held, along with a trial in court. The court detailed her actions and released her under ‘defence of accident’. News spread like wildfire. Soon, the entire school was talking about the Imran murder. The topic was not brought up at home. But everyone could sense the uneasiness. There were stern glances exchanged and pursed lips in response to difficult questions. The newspaper brought the headlines - “Accidental Murder Of College Student”. It did not mention what Imran did. This time, Alisha did not throw the newspaper back onto the kitchen counter, neither did she cluck sympathetically. 

She let the tears fall silently as she wept at the fact that everybody knew what ‘she’ had done.