So when I saw this person on TV, completely tarted up and giggling, I was convinced that I was hallucinating. I’d unfortunately tuned in to the last minute of the show, so I only saw this drag queen for a brief moment before the credits rolled, but I couldn’t help but think that s/he looked very familiar.

When I went over to Opiate’s house that night, she got a phone call that sent her into hysterics. When I asked what was so funny, she put the call onto speakerphone and rolled about on the ground, flailing her arms in an effort to maintain control of the hilarity, knocking over a number of ash-trays and empty bottles. I didn’t even notice, because the voice issuing from the speaker had all my rapt attention.

“[Opiate] darling, you never come to my parties na, you totally absolutely must have to, yeah? I mean, it’s my big night and you’ve not even been on my show yet, and wait till you see the jora [trans. “outfit”] I’ve had made for it, ufff it’s to TOTALLY fabulous yaar [trans. “buddy/dude/friend”] and I swear to you, it’s all sequined, so much that those two Reema and Meera bhenchod dekh kay mar jaaein gi! [trans. “sister-fuckers will die when they see it”], so you MUST be there haan, OK, it’s like my coming-out party na, and if you don’t come I’ll just DIE.”

“We aren’t seriously going to this are we?” I asked Opiate. “And who the hell was that anyway?”

“You don’t know?” she asked, looking at me strangely. “Seriously, you don’t know at all or are you just fucking with me?”

“I’m clueless,” I told her with disarming honesty. “So who is it?”

She just grinned at me. “You’ll see. In a few days. When we go to the party.”

And then I got distracted by the brigade of queens who rolled up (the fashionistas) to the house and proceeded to talk about how the Paris Hilton perfume launch in Karachi was just fabulous, and how Paris Hilton is (and I quote) “a true American cultural icon”. My suggestion that the only iconic standing she has is rooted in her quasi-mystical ability to give people who even think about her some form of venereal disease was greeted with haughty sniffs. Opiate just looked at me and rolled her eyes in sympathy.

A few nights later, I walked into Opiate’s house to find her hosting a “dance practice” for a friend’s wedding. And by “hosting”, I mean she stood on the side with a glass of whiskey and a cigarette, critically evaluating everyone in silence while Hindi film song remixes blared. After an hour of trying to keep up with some absurdly complex choreography, I gave up the ghost and threw myself down on a nearby pillow. That was my error. Seeing me prostrate, Opiate swooped down and before I knew it, I was driving us to a local shopping mall of sorts, where I walked in to find “Begum Nawazish Ali” wearing a sari and beaming proudly, thanking everyone for having shown up to his/her party and then breaking down into a sobfest complete with heaving (false) bosoms, tissue after tissue dabbing at his/her face with enough force to look realistic but not so much as to ruin the makeup.

“Oh my God,” I whispered to Opiate, watching the histrionic fit escalating to previously unreached heights. “Is this for real?”

“Apparently,” she whispered back, “his show is unbelievable popular. He’s a massive hit with everyone.”

“I know him,” I hissed. “That’s…”

“Yes it is,” said a third voice, belonging to our mutual friend the Sapphic (former) Supermodel, who had walked over and was regarding the wailing of the sari-clad banshee with barely-disguised contempt. “It’s him all right, and what he IS, is an incredibly tacky queen.”

“Well of course he is,” I said, shaking my head in wonder at her ire.

“There’s tacky and then there’s THIS,” she sniffed. “Do you realise that my MOTHER, the homophobe turned around to me today and said “You know, I don’t have any sympathy for the gays but this one must embarrass even them.” Of course she threw in more curses as well, but that was the gist of it.”

As one, all three of us turned around together to witness Begum Ali losing her shit with happiness and practically swooning from the adulation of the twelve-odd people standing around her who were obviously there for the chance to get on TV. She was giddy with the love of the masses, vertiginous with the appreciation she was getting, and for a minute, I was torn between applauding her madly for finessing deviancy into a money-maker, and slapping her silly for being an embarrassment to self-respecting homosexuals all over Pakistan who would have to deal with everyone thinking that all gay men are drag queens prone to hysteria at the drop of a stiletto.

I still don’t know how I feel about it. I mean, the perspective on what “gay” is in Pakistan is so skewed anyway, with 90 per cent of the populace thinking that being gay means that you’re either (a) a hermaphrodite, (b) a eunuch, (c) a tranny, or (d) just plain ol’ fucked-up. It just seems that reinforcing any one of those typisms is a foolish thing to do, but then again, what do I know? I just wish someone (like “Begum Ali”) had thought about this before doing it. I’m tired of “Will and Grace” Syndrome, in which the gays are paraded about for their entertainment value, and while I’m glad that to an extent it’s mainstream viewing, I also think that it’s a weak sop to gay people…I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: what sort of self-respecting gay man doesn’t get laid in like eight seasons? All they do is pander to and reiterate the worst stereotypes. I mean, we’re not like everyone else, sure…but does that mean that those differences have to be exploited for entertainment? If you’re going to do that, then take the whole fucking parcel, including the things that you only pay lip service to. Don’t just cut and paste the pieces that make for good viewing, at least not if you want to dare try to claim that “this is a great step forward for gay rights”, which is what one of the people at “Begum Ali’s” little performance piece was admiringly saying.

Idiot.