To you who find yourself reading this, thank you for deeming this worthy of your time. I have convinced myself that it is necessary to drown oneself in knowledge. Been a victim of endless consumption. Increasingly I realize that the summation of our lives is what we create not what we consume. What is inside us is buried along with us. I have endeavoured long, yearned even, to find a creative pursuit. In an attempt to forgo this cycle, I find myself writing this. This half-cooked, faltering but honest musing. I find reading second only to phonation. Since I find myself too scared to utter some of this out loud, I write this. I do not have to face you as you read this. Transparency hasn’t been my strongest suit, so this stands as an attempt to better myself. Since perfect is the enemy of done, I seek your pardon to bear with this while I (hopefully) improve my ways.
I remind myself now, that I write this for those I care about. Hoping I might relay something of value. More importantly, however, I write this for myself. To overcome my fear, work on this craft and dare rid myself of the embarrassment of speaking my mind. I attempt to be honest in writing what comes to mind. But I must admit, I shy from it. The world and its inhabitants are frighten me sometimes.
I am one of six children in my family. So naturally, I never had my own room. I was three years old when moved into the house I grew up in. I loved the new place. It was much bigger, had a lawn and to my avail, a great neighbourhood where my childhood was spent in the scorching sun (without SPF 50 sunscreens lol). Back then, I used to bowl leg-spin with an elbow angle greater than how acutely I now see the world. On paper, my brother and I were supposed to share a room upstairs. Decked out with blue paint and a bluer carpet, unmistakably the boys’ room. We never actually lived up there. Air conditioning gets expensive with 8 people. One after the other, all four of my elder siblings moved to Lahore for college. So at the ripe age of 16, I discovered the concept of privacy. This room was furnished with my mother’s twenty-five-year-old jahez, but more importantly, air conditioning.
Countless hours were spent scouring Reddit and YouTube amongst other non-descript forums and podcasts. Regrettably, scores of hours were spent elsewhere too, much more meaninglessly. Watched more shows and movies than I can name. This taste was acquired from my brother. He stored ungodly amounts of pirated torrented movies on his PC. All I had to do was copy a few at a time onto my hand-me-down laptop.
Over the years I spent more time and energy into decorating that room. I got new carpeting, a set of frames, and the infamous wallpaper background known to many of you. The very same one you saw my alleged 5’6 self take classes next to.
A few years ago, on an unassuming afternoon, I was squeezing in the Game of Thrones finale. My father would soon be home for lunch. The plot was twisting more than the roads in Jauhar. My phone started buzzing. I eventually located it between the folds of my unmade bedsheet but not before it stopped ringing. Missed calls from Abdullah and Eeman. Both had called to celebrate their invitation to interview for a spot at AKU. Since I had spent more time watching Ted Lasso than studying for that test, I’d rather be witnessing Jon Snow’s fate than my own. I decided I would finish the episode before I checked my own.
The show eventually ended woefully leaving me no excuse to delay any further. I had never known nor cared for what this university was. I only applied because my brother thought it was a good idea. The hideously green portal finally opened once I reset my password which I had previously set in haste, submitting my application only an hour before the deadline. To my disbelief there it was. Jumping out of the screen, telling me I had made it. I left my room to find my mother in the lounge. I told her then, and I will never forget the warmth of her embrace. To be happy for someone you love, knowing it will drive you away from them, takes a lot of courage. Courage that is hard to muster. Courage that I struggle to conjure.
Most of what I have achieved in my life I owe to her. I’m no superstitious man. But I firmly believe that without her prayers and shadow over me, I could never become the person I am, even in a thousand years. And for that, I will remain ever grateful to her. I hope that explains why I remain impartial to the show. Despite the critics’ claims of how terrible it was, it remains the best ending that could’ve existed for me.
I write this now a few hours after finishing the finale to House of the Dragon, another show in the same series that just now released. And I write this now, not from the comfort of my home, but from over a thousand kilometres away. Away from home and my mother’s warm embrace. I write in a 20-square-foot room that I have no choice but to call home.
The point of this is to remind not just you, but also myself that it all works out. Hope is dangerous. Easy to come by, hard to let go of. Capable of great torture. But to hope is to live. To wish, and to dream is what life is about. To watch as your castle built of hope crumbles. To witness it turn to nothing in mere moments. But to then find the courage to hope again. Knowing in your heart you will suffer again. But to do it nonetheless, not because you are foolish, but because you are human.
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