Laiba, 24

I fix smiles all day — looking for the one that makes mine appear without even trying.

Multan Dentist 5'2" BDS (Dentistry)

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Rabia, 27 Lahore → Ayesha, 24 Lahore → Fiza, 23 Faisalabad → Eshal, 24 Hyderabad →

Every morning in Multan begins the same way for me: heat, already, even at dawn — the kind of warm that sits on your skin like a familiar hand — and the sweet, heavy perfume of mangoes from the crates stacked outside our gate. It is mango season as I write this, which means my mother has declared a state of emergency in our kitchen, my father is negotiating with the fruitwala like it is international diplomacy, and I am eating anwar ratol over the sink before my clinic shift, juice running down my wrist, completely unbothered.

I am a dentist, which means I spend my days coaxing nervous humans into chairs they are convinced are instruments of torture. “Baji, dard toh nahi hoga?” — sister, it will not hurt, right? — is the question I hear most, usually from grown men twice my size. I have developed a whole system: the clove oil on a cotton swab first so the clinic smells like a kitchen instead of a hospital, the terrible jokes (“this will hurt me more than it hurts you — I have to miss my chai break”), and the sticker box for kids, which adults pretend not to want but absolutely do.

My BDS years were a blur of anatomy diagrams, night-before-exam panic, and my mother’s tiffin arriving at the hostel like clockwork every Sunday — still warm, still too much food, still with a note that said “kha lena, beta.” Eat up, child. I studied between power cuts with a flashlight in my mouth like some kind of academic anglerfish. When I finally held my degree, my father — a man of approximately nine total emotions — cried. Openly. In front of everyone. I have never been prouder of anything, including the degree.

Multan is the city of saints, and you feel it in the stones. On quiet evenings I walk near the shrine of Shah Rukn-e-Alam, that great blue dome rising over the old city like a prayer made solid, and the air smells of roses and dust and centuries. The bazaars below sell Multan’s famous blue pottery — I have a growing, unjustifiable collection of it — and sohan halwa so rich it should require a prescription. Which, as a dentist, I feel professionally conflicted about. I eat it anyway. Some battles you lose on purpose.

Let me tell you about mango season properly, because in my family it is basically a second religion. The chaunsa arrives first, golden and shameless. Then the anwar ratol, small and dangerously sweet. My grandmother used to say a Multani summer without mangoes is just weather. We have rules: no cutting corners — you eat them chilled, over a newspaper, with everyone fighting over the last piece. My brother and I have nearly come to blows over a langra. I am telling you this so you understand the stakes of marrying into this family.

Evenings here have their own music. Sometimes there is a qawwali night at a shrine courtyard, the dhol and harmonium rolling over the crowd like warm water, and strangers share food and stories like old friends. Sometimes it is just our rooftop — the whole family up there after dinner, the sky enormous, my father pointing out constellations he has named himself (“that one is the teapot, beta, I am sure of it”). Multan’s summers are fierce, but its nights forgive everything.

My dream is simple: free dental camps for schoolchildren across South Punjab. I have seen too many kids with toothaches they have hidden for months because their parents cannot afford a clinic visit. Twice a year, I want to load a van with chairs and mirrors and stickers — so many stickers — and just show up. A child’s smile should never be a luxury item. My mother says I have always been like this; at eight, I was performing “surgeries” on my dolls. The dolls, I am told, never complained.

And what am I looking for? A gentle soul. Someone kind to waiters, patient with children, and brave enough to sit in my dental chair without flinching — though I promise I will be extra gentle, dentist’s honor. Someone who will fight me fairly for the last mango and lose gracefully. Someone who laughs easily and means his apologies. I fix smiles for a living, but the one I am most interested in is the one I have not seen yet: yours, the first time we meet and you realize I am even funnier in person.

So here I am: Laiba, twenty-four, Multani to the bone, armed with a mirror and a probe and an unreasonable love for mango season. My clinic smells like cloves, my heart is embarrassingly soft, and there is a rooftop in Multan with my name on it, waiting for someone to watch the stars with. If that sounds like your kind of evening, you know where to find me.