The Gray Paradise (Short Story)

I stepped out the air conditioned car onto the street that seemed to be paved from the heat of hell. In a matter of seconds, my sunglasses began to fog from within and I took them off. It seemed like the sun was a feet away from my head. I squinted and rubbed my eyes for minutes before my gaze was adjusted to this bright burning weather.  It was a typical mid-summer afternoon in Karachi but coming from a breezy city like Toronto, the air was suffocating.

I walked straight towards the monstrous wooden doors guarded by two security guards and as I had anticipated, they let me in without any questioning. The common Pakistani is always intimidated by a man in a suit just stepping out of a million rupee car. I knew if I walked the walk correctly, they’d be holding doors for me. I guess something’s never change.

I stepped inside the doors which led to an open school ground.  It was time to clean out the skeletons in my closet. Just as I was exposed to the ground, I sunk in my own wistfulness. A massive wave of nostalgia overcame me and I stood struck by the memories for minutes.

There, on the left used to be the sports office, where I’d regularly check my name on the board for if I had made the cricket team or not. On the right used to be the twin canteens that were separated by a fence for the boys and girls. I’d line up every day with my friends and rush to grab the last piece of foiled beef roll. In the middle stood the cemented cricket pitch where I had many times exalted my skills.

The tall white buildings that rose from the ground on either side gave me such joy. Twenty years ago they were the last thing I would want to see. But today, after two decades of a mournful divorce from this place, I could not be happier to witness them. Each floor of these buildings had a different tale to tell.

The building on the far left was my Primary campus. All the pencil picking and address learning had been done there. On the right was my Secondary Building. That’s where I had gone through puberty, and learned what calculus was and wreaked a lot of mischief. If I think hard enough, I might still remember.

The time I had broken the chalk eraser in grade 7? The time I had sneaked out of class and bunked my history period loitering around the water cooler in grade 9? Or the time that I had picked my first and last fight and had broken Mohammad Ali’s nose in grade 10? So many memories of those wondrous years came flooding in. I was in the middle of these memories, the protagonist, the hero. And yet somehow, they felt like folk tales; stories that one tells the other for self-amusement. They have no truth to them, just stories that fade away with time.

But when I was living them, they were real. They were what I had known to be true. I had created my own food for life, and this is where I got the flavouring from.

I saw the cement pitch lay on the rocky yellow sand with great pride. I walked towards it, like I had walked towards it many times before. In rejoice of a wicket that a fellow player had taken, or with my head down with shame as we lost an easy one; my walk towards that pitch had always been remarkable.

But today I walk towards it with a different motive. I walk towards it so it may relieve me of my pain. I walk towards it not a 17 year old boy that believed that the world was his, but a 37 year old man that realized it wasn’t. I walk towards it with shame that I was unable to fulfill all my promises to it. I walk towards it to seek my redemption.

St.Micheal's Convent School
Photo Credits: Faseeh Ul Haq

Every step I took, I went further and further into my own mind, lost in its empty abyss. Finally, I took one step on the rugged grey piece of cement and stepped on to the center with my back to the secondary building. I hoped what I had come here for would pay off. That I would not be disappointed after I turned. I saw my shadow on the ground. It looked ready for the 180 degree spin. And with a twist of my heel, I spun.

For a second nothing happened. I looked straight at the wall of the secondary building that stretched on for metres, turning on the far corner and then continuing again so it made a rather large L shape. For years the wall of that building served as a boundary for our cricket games. Alongside the wide walls were benches lined up under the shade. Those benches served as meeting points for our gang. It was there where we gathered and planned the rest of the school day.

And then it began. My brain finally picked out the memory I had long savoured to replay. At the east end of the secondary building was a gate that opened into the auditorium where we would write our O-level exams. I remember fondly of the day I wrote my final Islamiat exam. I had written a perfect test and walked straight to the pitch to get away from the tall shade that the Secondary building casted upon the ground. The sunlight relaxed my muscles and I felt free under the burning sun.

My friends would soon follow me to the center of the pitch to discuss the exam. One said it was amazing, the other complained about the time. One said he was surely going to flunk it. A lot of conversations were taking place right where I stood now.

And suddenly the voices seemed to diminish as a young girl stepped out from that gate on to the rocky field. Her pencil case was in her mouth as she redid her hair in a bun. Her hair band wrapped around her wrist as she fixed the little strands of hair that touched her nose and forehead. She gave her neck a little jolt and fixed the band on her hair and pulled the pencil case out of her mouth. She asked her friend if her hair looked fine. She then smiled and gave an ecstatic scream about her exam. The gleam in her eye dimmed the scorching sun above me. Her lips stretched out across her face and I could have sworn at that moment nothing could be more perfect.

She took small strides towards the benches and sat down. One of her friend’s seemed to insist that she had quoted some Hadith wrong, but she had no care of the exam anymore. She was free. She seemed to tell her that she was indifferent and made her realize that the summer vacations were finally upon us. Not a moment went by that the smile left her face.

I could still hear my friend talking, but somehow he was muted. Everything had paused. I had a tunnel vision only to her. That’s all I could see. Her, sitting on the white marble bench with her feet crossed, so majestic. Minutes went by and I continued to look at her, never batting an eye. I had seen her before, but not like this. This was something I had never felt before.

Soon enough her gaze met mine and I felt as if my heart had been electrocuted. My heartbeat increased and I could feel the boneless muscle in my chest skip a beat every time it made the effort of pumping blood into my astonished body. My lips curled into a smile, my cheeks went red but I did not break my vision. Her smile turned into amazement. She took up the challenge and continued to stare at me, not knowing what enchantment she was putting me under.

Soon she stuck her tongue out and made the most ridiculous face she could make. It was like watching a flowery meadow in spring. I laughed, not at her face, but at how it made me feel. I broke away from my little group and to walked towards her. I felt each step I took led me to enlightenment. This was my good fortune, I was walking towards the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

When I was in her presence I stopped. She raised an eyebrow, her smile still glued to her face.

“Hi.” I said.

“Hi.” She said.

“Hi.” A little boy standing next to me said. I looked over my shoulder and I realized I was standing on this gray paradise for a long time. The ghosts of my past evaporated like vapour in front of me. “What are we looking at?” he asked. He must have been 15 or 16. I hesitated to answer. I made a living constructing fairy tales but today I was at a loss of words.

“Just thinking,” I finally said.

“About what?”

“About how fast we grow up, but how slow our memories do.” He looked confused. He pondered upon what I had said and shrugged it off. He stared at my face for a long time, like trying to remember me from somewhere.

“Have I seen you somewhere?” he inquired.

“I don’t think so.” I knew he had seen me. I was part of his English curriculum. Soon enough he pulled out a book in his bag and flipped to the back cover only to see my face smiling back at him.

“You’re this guy!” he screamed! He understood he had met a celebrity. His realization faded soon as he heard the final bell of the day and realized school had finished. Almost involuntary, without even asking for an autograph, he shoved the book back in his bag and stood beside me silently, staring at the auditorium gate.

A bunch of students exited from that door and out to their vans and I saw him examine each one. His vision halted on one particular student, a girl that walked past with her books placed against her chest while talking to her friends. She exited the doors and out the school she was. I looked at the boy again and saw a smile develop on his face. He gathered his things, shook my hand and made his way to the exit.

I stood there perplexed at what had happened. For a brief moment, I could see the spark I felt for her in this little boy. Were kids still capable to feel what I had felt two decades ago? If so, were their destinies similar to mine? 

I was struck on that notion when I saw her again. Sitting on her white marble throne like a queen, she was just like I had remembered her. The young girl that had not a care for the world. The young girl which had taught me more about life than life itself. The young girl I had abandoned to chase my dreams, only to realize she was the dream. And now it's too late. 

She saw me and flashed her wicked smile again. She then stood up and walked towards the gate. My brain was playing tricks on me. She was not real. But I had the urge to follow her. To set everything right. To tell her I was sorry. But I couldn't.

So I stood there, sheepishly atop the gray paradise and under the blazing sun. I remembered how the boy's face lit up when he saw the girl walk by. I could fondly remember myself once in his footsteps; believing love was as simple as they showed it in movies. I put my glasses on and walked towards the giant doors. 

I was a prisoner of my regrets and this was my punishment. For twenty years she pecked on my brains, reminding me of the mistake that I had made. Today, after twenty years of suffering, I welcome the pain, it is the sensation which will liberate me. Pain, my impeding friend

Break a Leg

"All pain is permanent as long as it can be seen." 

It’s like breaking a leg. All your friends and close relatives come visit you. If not, they at least call or leave a text message just recording their well wishes. Some really close friends, who’ve also rocked on the same boat, tell you how they had it much worse. Their experience defines their sympathies.

“Oh it was terrible!” they’d say. “Right down the knee cap up to my ankle. Leg split right open. You could even see the marrow! At least yours isn’t so bad.” They think it’s reassuring, but it’s actually not. It just makes me want to cut open my wound and show them I’m stronger than what they see.

Some friends play the pity card. They sit with you, talk to you, watch a movie with you, listen to your complaints and how much it hurts and how nothing is helping. They try to feel empathetic, but they’re not even close. They can’t feel it. Others try to cheer you up with mundane things like juice or candy or your favourite food. They just don’t know that when in pain, even sugar tastes bitter. It’s just how it is.

It’s not their fault to be honest. They’re just doing their job. Trying to help during the healing process. Trying to be there at the worst times. Just to create memories. Or maybe to reassure themselves that when it’s their turn, you’ll be there for them. I’ll be there for them.

What they don’t understand, is that at the time of healing, nothing feels good. It’s like chemo therapy. You lose your hair, your skin is pale, and the doctors are saying you’re getting better. But you don’t see it. You don’t feel it. It’s not there. The lasers are killing you and the cancer, simultaneously. You both are the disease, and you both are the cure.

What really agitates me is when it hurts, you can’t see it. They can’t see it. So when you complain and cry and show them the area where it hurts, they can’t see it. They’ll tell you it’ll get better, but they’re deluding you in the process of deluding themselves.

But the bizarre thing is, when the pain is unbearable, it stops. Everything stops. Your screams just become wave energies that you produce from your throat, tears just droplets of water cleaning your eyes, and your leg, just a hollow piece of bone, waiting to be mended.

When the pain is less, I sit near my window. Watching the kids play together, or the birds chirping away near the maple tree. It’s calming but not enough to make me forget what I’m unable to do. It’s not long before I push away and lie back in my bed and put my earphones on, muting the world as the melodies sooth my ear.

As time passes by, the friends start coming occasionally; giving more gaps between their visits and shortening their stay. It’s only fair. Nobody has the time that I have. So I welcome them just as hospitably as I did the first time. Their expectations grow from visit to visit.

“Oh it’s been a few weeks now, the leg is about to heal!”

“Well look at that, just a couple of weeks, the cast will be off and you’ll be walking along.”

I just smile and nod. Clearly they’re more optimistic than I’ll ever be. A few weeks to them are years to me. My time zone is different from theirs. Seconds can last as long as months and days can feel as short as minutes. Night bright as day and days darker than nights. That’s what pain does to you.

Eventually they stop coming. I get texts from them asking me how I am. How much longer till the cast is off. I say a few more days. 

I await the day my leg is free again. Scarred, but free. I walk. It’s magic.

I am back among the regular the people. Laughing, talking. My friends forget the wound and time heals the cuts. But I remember it fondly. The pain, my impeding friend.

That’s how a heartbreak feels. Exactly like that. 

Twitter: @itsNazar
Instagram: @itsNazar96

Doctor or Engineer?

"The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up." - Paul Valery

Well. It’s been some time since I’ve been posting. Mainly because school’s been hectic and life’s just been super busy. Also, because I’m writing extensively on some ideas I’ve been pondering upon. But most importantly, the thing that’s been keeping me from blogging, is the university stress.

Aah yes. The time in the life of every teenager that immigrates to a country where they have the choice to either become a doctor, or an engineer. The time where the teenager says, “What if I want to be a pilot Dad?” and the dad says, “Beta, Pakistani immigrants don’t become pilots. They become doctors. Save lives. Or engineers. Make equipment that save lives.” And lo and behold the kid is gone, into an unfamiliar territory of numbers and figures that he grows accustomed to.

Now this isn’t necessarily my story. I don’t want to become a pilot. I have a fear of heights. That also crosses out “Batman” from my career goals but that’s a different story. I primarily want to be an author. Story telling is my forte and I think I do it pretty well. But again, its not really a stable cause of income. Unless, you’re John Green or JK Rowling and mind you, they got success in the latter part of their lives too.

Also, a Pakistani father would not give his daughter’s hand in marriage for a guy who “writes.” Oh no. He wants those doctors and engineers too. Oh yeah.

But this, demeaning ideology in our society, that doctors and engineers are the only ones who make money is ridiculous. I mean c’mon. People’s dreams get shattered because someone else makes the decision that photography isn’t a viable source of income and that the kid should put down the camera and pick up a textbook.

Same thing with authors and artists. I’m not saying these professions guarantee a sustainable quality of life, but at least one might feel contented in what they do.

The problem is that middle class families in Pakistan are under the influence of there being a two profession lifestyle. The government board has a pre medical and pre engineering program in the Intermediate studies. Pakistan has around 17 schools for Engineering and only 2 well renowned schools for the Arts. Do we see this polarization of interests or not?

Then we complain that Pakistanis lack creativity.

Strings is a great example for my final point. Anwar Maqsood, a famous writer and television actor from the golden age of Pakistan television has a son named Bilal. He and some friends started a band in College. But swaying away from the orthodox way of pursuing a musical career by dropping out, Maqsood and his posse finished College, acquired their degrees and carried their passion for music. Now they’re one of the biggest bands in Pakistan.

If you have a talent that you think is distinct enough for the world to appreciate, then don’t let 4 years of school define if it’s worth pursuing or not. Get up and paint that picture, or write that story or click that photograph. Because if you don’t do it, then someone else will. And you’ll just be another example of a dream crushed.

I applied to six different universities this year for Electrical Engineering. I'm not really fond of the program but I think I'll do fine in it. But my train doesn't stop there. If I crush my dream of being an author right here, then I never had it in me in the first place. Writing is what I like, and I'll continue to write, even if I'm an engineer or a doctor. Because my dad says, 'Every great thing isn't easy, and every easy thing isn't great.'

Take it easy folks.

Peace.

Twitter: @ItsNazar 

Instagram: @ItsNazar96