Saturday, January 06, 2007
I head back to university this Monday after an 8 month hiatus. This is essentially my second last term insha Allah and if all goes according to plan, I should be graduating in December. But this is certainly not the end of line. I'll be back for a second degree insha Allah but meanwhile, I need some time away in the real world.
I feel like Frodo at the base of Mount Doom. A journey worth a thousand pages with tales of grief and joy alike. Those that started alongside have already left save a handful who stay, afraid of the unknown. I've overstayed my welcome too but my time is not far.
Yet, a part of me is happy that it all comes to an end. The challenges have become old and the routine has begun to drag me down. A new phase of life awaits and best of all, new challenges. My wings have just grown full.
I feel like Frodo at the base of Mount Doom. A journey worth a thousand pages with tales of grief and joy alike. Those that started alongside have already left save a handful who stay, afraid of the unknown. I've overstayed my welcome too but my time is not far.
Yet, a part of me is happy that it all comes to an end. The challenges have become old and the routine has begun to drag me down. A new phase of life awaits and best of all, new challenges. My wings have just grown full.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Moments
I am twenty two. There is an unusual chill in the air, the kind that permeates the body and overwhelms the senses. Snowflakes dance and twirl a perfect ten in mid air like an Olympic figure skater, only to die upon hitting the ground. The weather is cold but still amicable enough to wander around on foot. I am the last one to leave and there is a comfortable silence that speaks louder than a thousand words.
It’s hard to pinpoint where reality ends and imagination takes hold, refusing to let go like a tiger on its prey. I imagined being in a place of serene beauty and ever lasting peace, where the mind runs free and ideality reigns supreme. The moon shines through the white curtains like a future bride spying upon her potential suitors, playing hide and seek, ducking and weaving in the heavenly path it follows. Making my way to the car, I gingerly step on the fresh snow to avoid any unsavory incidents. A deep breath and exhale.
I am six. We walk around the puddles of water which during the day serve as the battleground of boats for the neighborhood kids. Hand in hand, I follow my aunt and mother as we stroll through the darkness, lit in patches where families forget to turn off their porch lights. The familiar path guides us from one street to the next into a seemingly never ending maze of entrances and exits. I pass by Irfan’s house and reflect on the beating he received in cricket today, wondering if he will show up tomorrow. Next come the high walls of the mosque lacking paint and finishing touches but abundant in wild bushes that grow on its perimeter. Another house that I recognize; a kid with a yellow bicycle and a solid third place finish each time.
I like this. There is a certain eerie silence broken by the mother’s discussion as she talks to my aunt about something vaguely recognizable though I’m the least bit interested. It had stopped raining some hours ago so the air is infused with morning freshness and a hint of crispness only found after the first rainfall of the season. A prisoner rose bush sticks out a gated metal fence and if not for the watching eyes, I would have plucked it.
I am twelve. It is mid afternoon and the sweltering heat rains down like a plague. I sit inside my fourth floor apartment, immune to the elements but taking notice of the constant hum of the air conditioner. Everyone is asleep.
Life carries on beneath my nose even as it comes to a stand still in my head. I sit on the head of the sofa and gaze out into the open as people walk back and forth in quick paces to avoid the tyrant sun. White flowing robes, casual wear, shalwar kameez dot the horizon and endless stream of Mercedes, BMWs, Toyotas, Mazdas zip by as if racing towards a prize. Everyone is in a rush, yet there is a beauty to their madness, a cyclic rhythm that pulsates like a throbbing heart. I lean my head against the sun baked window--line between reality and imagination is blurred.
It’s hard to pinpoint where reality ends and imagination takes hold, refusing to let go like a tiger on its prey. I imagined being in a place of serene beauty and ever lasting peace, where the mind runs free and ideality reigns supreme. The moon shines through the white curtains like a future bride spying upon her potential suitors, playing hide and seek, ducking and weaving in the heavenly path it follows. Making my way to the car, I gingerly step on the fresh snow to avoid any unsavory incidents. A deep breath and exhale.
I am six. We walk around the puddles of water which during the day serve as the battleground of boats for the neighborhood kids. Hand in hand, I follow my aunt and mother as we stroll through the darkness, lit in patches where families forget to turn off their porch lights. The familiar path guides us from one street to the next into a seemingly never ending maze of entrances and exits. I pass by Irfan’s house and reflect on the beating he received in cricket today, wondering if he will show up tomorrow. Next come the high walls of the mosque lacking paint and finishing touches but abundant in wild bushes that grow on its perimeter. Another house that I recognize; a kid with a yellow bicycle and a solid third place finish each time.
I like this. There is a certain eerie silence broken by the mother’s discussion as she talks to my aunt about something vaguely recognizable though I’m the least bit interested. It had stopped raining some hours ago so the air is infused with morning freshness and a hint of crispness only found after the first rainfall of the season. A prisoner rose bush sticks out a gated metal fence and if not for the watching eyes, I would have plucked it.
I am twelve. It is mid afternoon and the sweltering heat rains down like a plague. I sit inside my fourth floor apartment, immune to the elements but taking notice of the constant hum of the air conditioner. Everyone is asleep.
Life carries on beneath my nose even as it comes to a stand still in my head. I sit on the head of the sofa and gaze out into the open as people walk back and forth in quick paces to avoid the tyrant sun. White flowing robes, casual wear, shalwar kameez dot the horizon and endless stream of Mercedes, BMWs, Toyotas, Mazdas zip by as if racing towards a prize. Everyone is in a rush, yet there is a beauty to their madness, a cyclic rhythm that pulsates like a throbbing heart. I lean my head against the sun baked window--line between reality and imagination is blurred.
Labels: life
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
I share an office with a self confessed atheist. A middle-aged man with broad shoulders, he remains in good shape due to frequent jogs in Arctic like weather when most decide to hibernate.
It’s the same routine every morning. Lazily strolling into the office, I find him on the phone talking to his wife and school aged children. I don’t mean to eavesdrop but when you’re in the same office, any conversation is impossible to block out and not that he tries either.
One of his conversations with his eldest daughter, barely in junior high, struck a deep chord within me. He inquired about the preparations of the Christmas list. She must have mis-understood and began to recite off the list of presents she wanted. He corrected her and asked whether she has a list prepared for those not as fortunate.
He advised to buy a present for a girl of her own age and donate it. Then he named off more kids, possibly around the neighborhood or the family, who she should consider buying gifts.
I was nearly moved to tears.
It’s the same routine every morning. Lazily strolling into the office, I find him on the phone talking to his wife and school aged children. I don’t mean to eavesdrop but when you’re in the same office, any conversation is impossible to block out and not that he tries either.
One of his conversations with his eldest daughter, barely in junior high, struck a deep chord within me. He inquired about the preparations of the Christmas list. She must have mis-understood and began to recite off the list of presents she wanted. He corrected her and asked whether she has a list prepared for those not as fortunate.
He advised to buy a present for a girl of her own age and donate it. Then he named off more kids, possibly around the neighborhood or the family, who she should consider buying gifts.
I was nearly moved to tears.