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