Time Capsules.

The wilting carnation hung its head down, bowing in humility…its petals thirsty for a single drop of moisture…its brittle stalk bending under an invisible weight and its leaves pretending to be alive…

I really think it’s time to step out of the time capsule I have trapped myself in. Each time I browse through my saved chat logs, my sent folder on hotmail or my pictures, I step back into time. My mind races to the times when that specific event took place, what I was wearing, what I was thinking, how I was feeling, the date, the time, the place…everything runs in front of my eyes like a vivid chain of memories…each firmly linked to another. As I sit and watch each and every contact in my msn messenger sign in and out, I’m reminded of the most random memories related to that person, positive or negative, or sometimes even both. During my conversations with people, I always end up saying “time flies” or “I miss the good old days”, both these expressions paired up with a long sigh of acknowledgement and longing. Eighteen years of my life-- each of them laden with rich clusters of memories, like a vine of fat, pulpy grapes, bending under the weight of fruit. I always had this thing for details. Everything in life was a souvenir to me, a tissue paper, and an empty ink pen, a broken pair of glasses, wilting carnations and outdated stationery. I heard people call me “crazy”, even sometimes a “brooder”. But I just smiled because to me my memories were my everything…

Often I sat down by myself and wondered about things. What things? The answer is “every single thing”. I found myself trying to answer questions that I never found the true answers to. I can still remember the way I used to sit down in my room, lights dimmed, door closed, letting random thoughts travel through my mind like a lazy whirl of smoke through a smoke stack…

Haphazard; a word that aptly describes what my eyes see. A mahogany desk bearing the weight of various knick knacks – colored ink pens, a pencil holder, a copy of “The Kite Runner” and “A Thousand Splendid Suns” stacked neatly over each other, an empty carton of a cough syrup holding a wilting carnation, a box of binder clips, a pad of paper-- all were visible evidence of the fact that I had been working and not sitting idly in the recent past. I can still picture myself sitting on this very desk and working out derivatives, balancing chemical equations and studying the parts of the endocrine system… it all seems like yesterday… Forgetting to give my chair its due credit for tolerating a load of 55 kilograms ever so often, would be highly unfair of me. I can still vividly remember each and every time I graced the chair with my presence and rested my elbows on this desk to ponder about things, in a way this desk has been through everything with me—guilt, sadness, joy, shock, or mere loneliness. Ironic as it sounds, the desk became my imaginary friend, my pillar of strength…

As I run my hand over the smooth top, I observe the intricate chocolaty swirls that cover the surface; each swirl telling a different story as if competing for the best story-telling award. My eyeballs have to struggle to follow the mischievous crests and troughs of paint strokes to observe the pattern. Each of those strokes of paint bears witness to the changing emotions in my life--the tumultuous waves, the rocky truths, the bizarre revelations, the dips in pools of memories and nostalgia, simply everything I went through physically or mentally.

Darkness. That’s what people see when they close their eyes. But I beg to differ. Whenever I close my eyes, I am greeted by a very warm flood of memories. Each memory struggling to catch my attention first, like a basket of tangled wool, each spool attracting you and so interconnected to the next that you couldn’t do without tampering with everything in the basket. I randomly choose a memory and breathe deeply. I’m taken to unknown realms of places that were familiar to me a very long time ago…June 5, 2006, Haji ads, ‘lights, camera, laughter’…Luqman, Nida, Fariha, Hibah, and me, the time when my sophomore year was just ending. June 8, 2006, Luqman’s graduation ceremony, nostalgia, longing, sadness, drama and such emotions taking toll of me. I remember everything. June 11, 2006; when I waved good bye to people, who meant a lot to me, with a very heavy heart. June 8, 2008, my high school graduation, how nervousness was in the air, how everyone was shivering in the long line of graduates as we made our way to the stage, how our blood-maroon gowns and blood-drained faces made the perfect combo. Everything, everything comes flowing back to my mind.

Old ticket stubs, photographs, chewed pencils, broken glasses, tissue papers with writings, torn diaries, decorated shoe boxes, used prepaid mobile cards, wilting flowers, a decaying leaf, notes passed in class, T-shirts, and old shopping receipts. I kept everything dear to me. Sometimes I feel like preserving the air around in a jar, trapping the ambience of a certain moment for myself to savor or look back to in future. Yes, label me as a fanatic. But that’s me and my memories. I often feel that my memories and my fondness for me stunt my emotional maturity, but how can I leave my treasures of good and bad behind so easily? How can I bury everything as if my life consisted of “lack of eventfulness”? I’m often left alone to ponder upon this. When I look at certain people, who I remember so much about, and see there lack of interest in the past we shared, it hurts me deep down inside. I am sometimes made to feel as if I’ve spun a cocoon of comfort out of my memories and that I have refused to come out and face the changes around me. But that’s absolute nonsense. I hold my memories dear, not because I refuse to accept change, but because I feel a sense of achievement when I look back and see what I was and what I have become. I hold my memories close, not because I’m a brooder, but because I feel that my roots and origins deserve due importance and grace. Alhamdullilah, I have had an excellent life, full of its ups and downs, but I had friends and family to pick me up after every fall. I had my God by my side to guide me to the paths that I never thought I could cross alone. I’ve come a long, long way and I am fond of looking back at the long road I have walked on, to think of the hurdles that came my way and how by the grace of God I surpassed them all.

I thank you God, for the immense treasures of blessings You have showered upon me. You carried me through the roughest times only to help me grow wings to fly free of fear and limitations in this world of Yours. Thank You, I could never thank You enough.

I was told.

I was told if you hold tightly onto dreams,
You could shut your ears to the ghastly screams,
Of the past and of the haunted memories,
Of terrible mistakes and treacheries.

I was told to look at life verily in the eye,
To hold my chin up and reach for the sky,
To spread my wings far and very, very wide,
To let the winds carry me side by side.

I was told to creep into the darkness ahead,
To make way for light to enlighten the dead,
To discover a horizon and name a star,
To witness a miracle and heal all scars.

I was told to tread a path, nobody ever took,
To never look back, even if my knees shook,
To strengthen my soul and my heart,
To immune me from breaking apart.

I was told to always look ahead,
To follow life no matter where it lead,
To accept my fate and my destiny,
To smile and face any adversity.

I was told to feel the rain drops on my skin,
To let them seep into my flesh within,
To feel the cool breeze rustle my hair,
To let my heart dance, without a care.

I was told to savor every breath of mine,
To thank the Lord for every dollar and dime,
To spill fountains of love and of charity,
To alleviate pain and all tragedy.

I was told to cast shadows on the empty path,
To guide people away from a fiery wrath,
To mold and kneed the hearts around,
To spread love in the surround.

I was told to curl my lips gently into a smile,
To lock the happiness and eradicate the vile,
To secure the peace and sanctity of brotherhood,
To do it in the name of universal good.

Colors at War.

Roaring pinks, bright burgundies, bloody reds, tantalizing yellows, exotic blues, and grotesque greens. It was all a blur. The flashy lights twinkled furiously- yellow, bright yellow, orange, even flaming red at times. All around me I could hear Pathan cloth vendors yelling out to potential customers, trying to lure them to their respective shops or stalls. In spite of it being after seven in the evening, the bazaar was a little world in its own. Pools of silk, chiffon, cotton and the finest materials adorned the streets, yards of cloth scattered around added to the festivity in the air… everything looked magical.

Circles and swirls,
Rounds and curls,
Colors and magic,
Some happy, some tragic,
Glowing faces,
Twinkling eyes,
Only smiles,
No more cries.
Sounds and light,
And Gleeful sights!


As Ramadan was coming to an end and Eid-ul-Fitr drew closer, shopping places became the ultimate resort for most people, especially shopaholics. In the humidity and heat of September, people still mustered up the courage to head towards open bazaars, like Aurega in Gulberg. A typical Friday evening shopping spree held so much in store for the people of Lahore, this was quite evident looking at the blazing lights, the rush, the traffic and the explosive colors of cloth attacking peoples’ eyes from all directions. As our car inched towards the parking area, my eyes were wide open, trying to absorb all the energy around me. I stepped out of the car, totally stupefied at the amount of hub dub around me. This was the first time I was spending Ramadan and Eid in Pakistan. This was also a first when it came to Eid shopping in the very Lahori style. I made my way through the crowds of people, trying my best to save my toes from the heavy pounding of various feet. I tried to stop at each stall to look at the clothes and feel them with my fingers to guess what the intricate pattern of threads suggested the material was. I wasn’t an expert, so I couldn’t distinguish cotton from linen. I witnessed an explosion of colors as each shopkeeper unrolled his lot of cloth. Cloth came reeling out of spools, screaming out different colors, each more appealing than the one before. It was really hard for me to keep up with the amount of color pouring out of each end of the street. It was as if the colors were at war- each crevice of the bazaar, a new battlefield. A blood red velvet provoked a glorious green. The green silk, gliding smoothly out of its roll, responded equivocally. Lavender linens tried to assert their presence too, as they fell back into a neat pile at the feet of the vendor. Black chiffons traveled in streamlined motion between the thumb and index finger of the keeper. The air rang with Pushto-accented Urdu and the rickety-rackety sounds of rickshaws as if tempting the colors to burst out into a war song. Beggars lined the streets, feigning physical and mental disabilities to gain sympathies of passer-bys. No matter how haggard and shabby they looked by face, their faces glowed under the searing fairy lights around. Street vendors walked from car to car, each of them selling bizarre goods- sunglasses, magic toys, hosiery, rosaries, table cloths, and watches. I wiped off the beads of sweat settled on my brow and looked around. I saw different people with their friends and families, some trying to bargain with the keeper, some scolding their naughty kids, some stopping by to munch on some popcorn. I saw people dressed in abayas, in jeans, in shalwar kameez, the diversity overwhelmed me. Huge billboards with pretty models with flashy grins endorsed cellular services, toothpastes, tea, or shampoos. It seemed as if they too were enjoying the amount of activity going on around them in that bazaar that day. My eyes feasted on the swirls of colors, energies, and patterns around myself. It felt like Eid already. I couldn’t help smiling at the diversity around me. Today, I finally realized that, yes, diversity is the spice of life.

And I Never Felt the Same.

i looked at the paths,
the dusty roads,
the broken garden gate,
the rusty ways,
the old routes,
and other remnants of our fate.
trust me, i never felt the same.

the trees all standing,
tall and still,
the winds rustling,
over the hills,
a reminder of all that once was,
stories that i kept close to heart,
and never, i never felt the same.

each night i lit a candle,
hoping you'd come,
each night i blew it off,
realizing what we had become.
the distance increased, more than i could tame,
and again, i never felt the same.

the sun shines the same way,
so does it set.
the rains still beat the roof,
making my heart wet,
the moon still talks about you,
but i don't because i never felt the same.

as my breath rises and falls,
my heart skips a beat,
my insides churn at all sounds,
a fire burns inside,
hoping we'd meet.
alas, my faith turns out blind,
since i know, i never felt the same.

the shores etched with prints,
tell another tale,
the tides still beat the sands,
and whisper to the gale,
the sand sifts through my bare hands,
truly, i never felt the same.

the stars, the clouds,
the skies,witness my incessant cries,
the tears in my eyes have now dried,
scars have covered my soul,
i didn't need comfort,
no need of anyone to console,
because anyway, i never felt the same.

i still search in hidden darkness,
for you again and again,
i call out your name,
without any gains.
my heart now accustomed to this new pain,
i realize, i never felt the same.

The Letter.

June 25, 2008, Wednesday, what an auspicious day it was… Sri Lanka had beaten the crap out of Bangladesh by setting a target of 358 runs, Germany had beaten Turkey in the Euro 2008 semi-finals by 3-2 and India had beaten Hong Kong by a good 256 runs in the Asia Cup. While all this was going on around me, I was sitting in that sofa chair with my laptop comfortably nestled in my lap watching Koffee with Karan with total ease and lack of concern, or was I really? Since right after graduation, friends, family friends, and relatives have been bombarding me with questions about where I am going to go for further studies and I give them all the same two three answers that I have prepared and memorized for each of them…Answer A, “I’ll be going to Pakistan for medicine. I’m still not sure which college, but I will start applying all over once I get there. Medical admissions start late in the fall, so I’m pretty inactive at the moment”— this is for those who I don’t want to give my detailed career map to, such as competitors and nosy elders, who think their children are a lot better than me and don’t refrain from rubbing it in my face. Answer B, “I applied to Gulf Medical College, I cleared the initial stages, but I’m not going there anymore. I applied to AKU and Shifa College of Medicine in Pakistan and I’m waiting for further procession of my applications.” This answer is for those who I need to impress with my by utmost talent and skill. You see, I’m very image conscience. So today, like any other day I woke up late in the afternoon, did nothing productive, sat on the couch until the padding of the cushions beneath me went flat, refreshed my facebook homepage after every five minutes in hopes that people would write on my wall, comment on how nice I looked in my pictures or at least comment on any one of my notes, and of course day dreamt like no other. When one wakes up when half the day is gone, one just loses track of time and it whizzes by. After about a good six-month hiatus the Chaudhry family finally decided that it was time to tell our fellow friends that we were very much alive and would want to invite them to a dinner, which happens to be tomorrow, June 26, 2008. I can picture my mother, an emergency physician by profession, flustering over how her crockery is so out-dated, how we never help her around with chores, how my dad camps in our T.V lounge in front of the plasma screen, how my brother goes into hibernation and how I being an eighteen year old still fail to learn my fundamental responsibilities as a family member and daughter. So taking my mother’s lack of hope in me as an insult, I decided to take charge of the humungous grocery shopping expedition that was due before the preparation of the dinner for the following evening. I happily got ready in ten minutes and prodded out my door to accompany my dad to the grocery store. I being a person very stingy about change didn’t quite appreciate the fact that my dad had chosen to shop at a store where I wasn’t very used to going, but I just sighed and busied myself in hunting the things required. The small departmental store was bustling with Asians- Indians, Pakistanis, Filipinos, Indonesians, and so on, it was quite a sight. I steered the jerky trolley through the narrow aisles showcasing the Pakistani basmati rice, Iranian saffrons, Indian tamarinds, and an array of garam masalas, looking for some “Biryani Masala” my mom needed. My eyes were exhibiting a typical case of nystagmus as I moved my gaze up and down the high shelf looking for that specific brand, my eye muscles ached and my occulomotor nerve was probably cussing at my sensory cortex. In spite of this, I failed to find the hidden treasure I was looking for, and so I moved on. I circled the whole store almost thrice, trying to fill my cart up with the much-needed stuff, to the point that I started getting those nasty looks by those around me. Nevertheless, I decided to stay indifferent to it. After a very tiring and repetitive trial and brawl session, I made my way to the counter and tried to still gaze around for “THE” masala I needed, but then I just gave up. I came home, stacked everything in the fridge in such disarray, violating every single rule my dear mother had set up for “arranging” food items in the fridge—“The bread goes in here. The vegetables and fruits go in the bottom compartments. The beverages and drinks go in the door pockets…” As soon as I finished stashing a big bottle of apple juice into one of the wrong compartments in the fridge, I made my way to the lounge to the coffee table, where I just wanted to relax and congratulate myself over bravely handling the ultimate grocery experience. However, a bundle of latest mail distracted me from my initial intentions. I sifted through the bills, bank correspondence, and pamphlets to finally come face-to-face with an opened enveloped with Aga Khan University’s official seal on it. I’m usually very particular about being the first one to touch my mail, but my anxiety and curiosity didn’t allow me to ponder over who had sliced open the letter before me. I quickly pulled out the white piece of letter paper with “Miss. Sidra Chaudhry” written at the very top. A quick read through the letter made me sigh and I smiled. It said:

“…...Upon review of your application, University records showed that your SAT 1 scores did not conform to the University’s eligibility requirement; therefore your application will not receive any further consideration for the October 2008 session. We thank you for entering competition for admission to Aga Khan University Medical College. We hope that this setback will not dissuade you from your interest in medicine but your will use this as a learning experience in your future endeavors.”

Why I smiled you ask? I smiled for several reasons. I smiled because I knew a long time back that it would be tough for me to get into AKU, I’m optimistic yet realistic. I smiled because I knew that when one door closes, another opens. And finally I smiled because of this: “We hope that this setback will not dissuade you from your interest in medicine but your will use this as a learning experience in your future endeavors.” Firstly, because they don’t know jack about my conviction for medicine as a profession or more aptly a lifestyle; the way biryani masala spices up biryani, medicine’s the spice to my life and secondly, people who were a tidbit of narrow-sighted when it came to spelling were dissing me on my SAT scores. They think they could stop me in my tracks eh? How wrong they were about me.

Once my momentous confrontation with the “unacceptance” letter was over, I began to ponder over why my parents had chosen to hide this letter from me. Did they really think I was that weak that I couldn’t handle the truth? Did they want to shield me from the taste of failure? Did they think I could or would succumb to failure? I guess it would just be safe to say that they were being parents.

You know what bothered me a lot? What drove me all this time? A constant fear of failure. It was a very conscience and self-inflicted limitation I had imposed on myself that no matter what I do, I had to succeed. I didn’t want to allow myself to fail. I vividly remember the dates February 18, 2007 and October 25, 2007, when I received my SAT 1 and SAT Chemistry scores respectively; both were lower than the scores required by AKU. My marginally low scores on the SAT 1 didn’t tick me off as much as my low SAT Chemistry scores did. I cried and cried and cried for hours on October 25, 2007, Thursday, a weekend that had just gone sour. I remember hysterically yelling at my mom over the phone, while she was in Pakistan, accusing her of not praying enough for me. I just wasn’t ready to believe that College Board had stumped me over one of the very first balls of the innings. I went into depression, a word that I had always disassociated myself with. It took me a good month or two to shed off the coat of misery I had decided to wear and go on to do the SAT twice more, with higher scores, but still not up to the mark of AKU. I had dreamt and prayed about getting into AKU. I had imagined myself in AKU all the time. My prayers had begun with “Oh Allah, do whatever’s in my best interest. Let me get into AKU! Oh please God!” But as they say, Man proposes and God disposes.

Since bygones are bygones, I’m going to come back to June 25, 2008. So here I am sitting, typing and shedding a random tear or two, trying to put my kaleidoscopic mind on paper. Before you jump to any conclusion, I’m not at all exhausting my lacrimal glands overtime over the “unacceptance” letter. Over-whelmed is the keyword. I’m over-whelmed by the speed with which times have flown in front of my very eyes. I’m enthralled by how simple things can seem and how complex they are actually, deep down inside. I’m awestruck by the lessons nature teaches and how it teaches them to us. I’ve just been bowled over by the Greatness of the Al-Mighty. I’m not afraid to call this letter a rejection or a failure; I admit I was not good enough and therefore wasn’t given the chance, but ironically, I suddenly feel so privileged and blessed. The feeling’s so beyond words that I’d probably run out of space and time to explain just how much lighter I feel. As I look at the various choices I have around me, I am forced to thank Allah for the numerous blessings He has showered upon me. Upon close inspection, I discovered that I have the grades, the finance and the will to make my way forward, all due to God’s grace and mercy. As I had said earlier, “when one door closes, another opens” and I will just have to wait for one with the hope that I don’t become blind to an open door.

As I sit here and type, I don’t want to sound as if I’m gloating over my rejection, but I’m celebrating the essence of being called a potential competitor. I will always keep the letter dear and near to me, since it has been a major factor in grounding me to earth and it has instilled in me a new hope and a new desire to prove all the negativities wrong. Insh’Allah, there will come a day soon, when I get into a great medical college and enroll in it as a diligent M.B.B.S student. The day that happens, Insh’Allah, I will feel that I have found the “biryani masala” that I have always looked for, to spice up my life.