EWS = Essay 4 = A son....

There is a small story attached with this essay. Our teacher took the essays and blacked out all our names from it. She chose people randomly to read aloud whatever essay she gave and the rest of the class that listened to it had to guess the writer. It was a lot of fun! My essay was given to a guy, M. Now he has a mellow way of talking  and it was a coincidence that our teacher gave my essay to a boy. When he spoke the first line,"Aliya and I have been married for more than fifty years" we all burst out laughing. He blushed! After that he tried again but we all couldn't stop laughing and he gave the essay back and even the teacher thought it best that a boy not read it. To get us serious again, we guessed all the essays until this essay was the only one left, so it was obvious that the last essay was my essay. So a girl read it, and once she did start reading, there was silence.   

“A son is a son before he gets a wife. A daughter is a daughter all her life.”

Aliya and I have been married for more than fifty years. That’s quite a record, considering the divorce rate these days. I had seen her for the first time at a funeral. Yes, finding love at a funeral seems like a bad omen, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of her the moment I laid my eyes on her. I had nudged my sister, to show her my future wife. I did not even know whether she was already spoken for and I didn’t care. My elbow felt nothing where my sister should have been sitting. I averted my face from Aliya and looked for my sister and then it hit me like a ton a bricks. I was at my sister’s funeral.

My poor brother, I felt such sorrow when he had looked away from Aliya and realized that I wasn’t there. His face had crumbled for a split second and then he had gone back to an unreadable expression. He was devastated that I was dead. He couldn’t believe that his twin sister is not glued to his side, playing video games or getting hit by a football over and over again, just for fun. He bowed his head slightly and didn’t dare look at Aliya for the rest of the day. I know what it’s like to feel that way, falling in love. I was also falling in love when I died. It came too late. Love came when I was in the hospital, getting treated for leukemia. Hussain was so nice to me; we talked and tried to laugh while needle after needle was pricked through my skin. He finally blurted out that he loved me just before the good news that my turn for a bone marrow transplant was possible as the doctors had found a match. And then I just died. Poor Hussain. I could see him sitting with his father, one of my many uncles at the other side of the room.

However, it was not because of Hussain that I stayed around for a while. I stayed to make sure my family moved on. That they continued on from this horrible stage in their lives. I was dead now. They couldn’t do anything about it. My parents seemed to be drowning in their tears. What is wrong with them? They shouldn’t be like this. How do I convey to them that their daughter is fine? It is a tricky thing, this dead business, once you’re dead, you can never ever go back. So I made myself comfortable, hoping that my family let go of their grief over me, so that I could move on as well.

A few weeks passed, the number of guests diminished gradually until the days came when my family had no reason not to continue their normal routine in their lives. This was difficult in itself. My parents relied on my brother’s strength to live as normally as possible and I could see the superhuman strength my brother exerted not to cry. He was eighteen going on thirty. My mother took the longest to get over my absence and heavily relied on my brother. He woke Mum up before going to school, he would come back and sit with her for an hour or so every day, just talking about me or updating her on the outside world. He would get her small gifts now and then, and made sure she had her antidepressants. My brother’s support helped Mum immensely and she got better as time passed.

A few years passed and my family was almost back to normal. They smiled and laughed a lot more, especially when my brother broached the subject of marriage. He actually blushed! My father patted him on the shoulder and asked that if he had any girl in his mind. My brother immediately told them about Aliya. I clapped with glee. My parents made arrangements for a formal meeting with Aliya’s parents, even though they were related, but it was tradition to make an official request for matrimonial purposes. I waited a bit longer; I wanted to know just a bit more. As I had already known, because my brother would be the greatest life partner, Aliya agreed. Mum’s tears did not stop that day; they were of joy, for my brother.

I fast forwarded to the life after my brother’s marriage. I swore to myself that I will leave after a glimpse of their happiness. I naturally assumed that there was nothing to worry about. I guess I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I saw my brother deliriously happy with his new bride. My mother though was breaking down to weep more often than before. She wouldn’t show it in front of others, but her depression got worse and worse. What I couldn’t understand was that why was she still so upset. She had a very sweet daughter-in-law, now she wouldn’t feel my absence. Something was amiss.

I fast forwarded again to events that would tell me what was still causing Mum so much pain and then I saw it. She was in the tiny store room, which was squeezed between the kitchen and my brother’s room. She sat squished up in a corner of the room, and looked through a box called “Baby”. She took out what seemed like certificates. I scrutinized the certificates and realized that they were the ones I had collected since childhood. From spelling bee contests to swimming meets. Then she took out these beautiful pieces of clothes, laces and embroideries. The colors were so vibrant and uniquely combined that one could not help but notice the care and effort gone into choosing each piece. A lump formed in my throat and my stomach sank. These pieces were meant to be my wedding clothes. I was shaking when Mum took out the graduation gown and remembered how proud my parents had been of me for finishing high school.

I couldn’t bear this pain Mum was inflicting on herself. I rushed to Aliya and tried to communicate that she should go out to the store room. Aliya sensed that something was not right and went out to investigate. She saw my mother and gently put all the things back into the box and took Mum to her room and brought in a cup of tea and biscuits later.

Aliya was such a nice and attentive daughter-in-law, but I finally realized what was wrong. She was not me; she was not Mum’s daughter for whom she had dreamt dreams since she had conceived. I felt like my heart would break. In this dilemma, I remembered a principle told time and again by an eccentric aunt. A son is a son before he gets a wife; a daughter is a daughter all her life. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. My guardian angel had finally come to take me to the beyond. I pleaded to let me stay there forever, but he just shook his head, it doesn’t work that way. So after one last look at my family, I left. 

EWS = Essay 3 = When I saw that fork in the road just ahead in my life...

This essay is a foresight and an hindsight essay combined. A foresight essay is when one writes a story about a choice being being made in the future and what could be the consequence of making that choice. A hindsight essay is when one writes about a choice being made and  going through the consequences of making that choice. 

This essay is special to me because it is non fiction and fiction. It is a peak into my life in a way and my predictions into what caused me to make a decision of a certain issue. 

P.S. I got full marks in this essay.

When I saw that fork in the road just ahead in my life, I chose to be a woman in purdah than to be a woman in jeans

I remember that when I was around five or six, my mother had asked me a question that would more or less define her for the rest of her life. She asked me whether she should accept purdah or not. I was baffled and emphatically said no, it was close to a shout I didn’t realize though what it actually was that I was denying my mother. What had really bothered me was that I wouldn’t be able to recognize my mother when she would wear a ‘rida’ (a style of purdah worn by Dawoodi Bohras). She wouldn’t be the same. She wouldn’t look like my mother. I was baffled to hear my siblings’ encouragements to our mother to accept it. I felt betrayed that they could so easily let our mother change herself into almost a stranger. How dare they?! I cried that day and my mother soothed me and assured me that she will remain the same forever. She did not change in the ways that I thought she would, she still had the eyes that understood everything, the lips that always quirked knowingly when I was lying and she still had the voice that could make me sometimes feel like a princess and sometimes feel like an immature child. She most definitely was my mother and wearing a rida did not change it. What had changed was the perspective of the society that we lived in. 

Living in a certain community has its own pros and cons. I believe that a community that has more pros than cons is the community where one can grow and prosper spiritually, mentally and physically. Thus, my parents moved from their old neighborhood to Clifton. It has a community that has a mixture of views of men, women and children. Women especially had no qualms about wearing anything other than ridas, they roamed however they wished and there wasn’t anyone to raise a question. My mother had no qualms either but somehow, something changed within her that made her decide to wear the rida. My father had no involvement in her decision, in fact, she told my father one day that she will be wearing one from then onwards and my father was as stunned as I was. He was incredulous that this change will last, but it has been twenty years and my mother has worn a rida without fail. She changed only in her views of how to bring up her feisty daughters; she did not push us into doing things such as cooking or covering our heads in front of unknown men. She changed in her views of doing business with some men who looked at her with superiority and even though they appreciated her purdah, but they did not appreciate them working for/with her. After all, we live in a patriarchal society and conversing with a female who sits on the ‘masters’ chair and a male sitting on the less important chair on the opposite end, is somewhat incomprehensible. Her male workers having to listen to taking orders from a woman, is rather unacceptable to the male psyche of our society.     

I wish to walk in her shoes one day as well. The only time I wear a rida is during religious congregations in the masjid. Every time I adorn these traditional clothes, I feel safe and comfortable. The beautiful embroideries, the soft cotton and the colorful appeal of it bring forth a confidence that I don’t get from any other style of clothing. It is appreciated from not only Bohras, but also from people of other communities. What is even more appealing is the fact that my parents have not forced me to wear a rida. They themselves advised me to go slow, start from somewhere and eventually I’ll get the hang of it and will wear it all the time automatically. The most important reason however, is that it is a part of who I am. I cannot ignore a significant part of my identity and in the near future, I will fulfill this promise to myself.  

I had made this promise eight years ago and as some say that mothers are always right, so was mine. Something inside of me shifted, evolved into another stage of maturity perhaps. The factors I have mentioned later are not the essence of what had actually changed within me to finally accept purdah but they were parts of my reasons. The religious side of me believes that God had helped me cross the hurdle-full road. I believed the term ‘history repeats itself’ when I told my husband. As my father was stunned and incredulous when my mother told him about her purdah decision, so was my husband. We don’t have children yet, so I did not have the support of my children as my mother did (except one). He asked me a question though, why?    

The road to reaching the final destination was filled with obstacles. These obstacles were of the kinds that are always in one’s way when almost abiding by a decision made in the past. There were nails of fear stabbing my feet each time I took a step to wearing one of the ridas in my wardrobe to work, but my confidence would fade as soon as I would open my closet and see the dresses and styles I have worn since forever. There would be endless ditches of hesitation, not knowing when I would be clearly able to answer my mother’s questions about accepting purdah, what pricked me like needles on the way down these ditches, was when she would say that I’m even married now, it’s about time. My husband is not even aware about this indecision; he did not mind me wearing traditional clothes or the trendy styles appropriate for my age. I was as confused as to what was really stopping me from fulfilling a vow to myself.

This path though didn't just have obstacles, it also had slides and roller blades that I rode to lead myself nearer to my promise. One of them was that one day I had to take a cab on my way to work as my car had a punctured tire and my husband had already left for work. I stood by the embankment, hoping to find a taxi and reach work on time (which I didn’t). My home is in a secluded area and one has to walk all the way to the end of the lane, which is a main road to the commercialized area. As I waited for an empty cab to pass me by, a white car slowed down near me and a big burly man with a handle-bar moustache gestured me to sit in his car. I was shocked and disgusted, but impassively faced away from that man. He waited for a bit and drove off when it showed that I was not interested. I was shaking by the time I power walked back home and called my husband and sobbed the whole story to him. He immediately picked me up and consoled me on the way to my workplace, but something inside of me was stirring, an anxiety that my security was jeopardized. Another factor was the fashion obsession of the society I lived in. The moment I would bring home the clothes I had just gotten stitched, they would have been replaced by another trend already, not only was that frustrating but tiring. One-third of my time would be spent pouring over magazines to have know-how on the new clothing styles. My colleagues were ruthless when anyone would come to work dressed in some way differently than them. They were definitely shocked that one day I came to work in my rida.

Their gazes at the soft folds of my rida were filled with skepticism. I never gave an inclination to my spirituality or piousness and that was the exact intention they assumed would be my reason for it. One would sometimes relate traditional change to religious epiphany. They were wrong. It was between me and my conscience, but then some say that conscience is a gateway to communicating with God. Who knows?

My first day wearing the rida was a bit odd. The news of my ensemble spread fast in the office far and wide, all the way to the manager’s office. He came by around lunch and asked me to come to his office with my tea. I was a bit nervous. My mother had her own business and she could wear whatever she pleased. I worked at a publishing company, and had superiors to answer to. After we had conversed about the usual pleasantries, my manager changed the topic to my dress code and asked if it was permanent. The nervous butterflies in my stomach did not obstruct the confidence in my voice as I affirmed that the rida is permanent. He just nodded his head in approval (as if I had asked for his permission) and changed the topic to the upcoming book release. After a split second hesitation, I also went along with the change of subject. It wasn't the end of that but it got easier for my colleagues to get used to my dress code since my boss approved. It was the natural order of things in the company I worked in.

When it came to telling my friends, they were not as surprised as my colleagues were. That actually surprised me. Their reasoning was that they knew me better than I knew myself. A close friend told me that if I had never taken purdah, it wouldn’t have made sense for me. It was just who I was, and it suited me. I was pleased by their positivity but even if they had protested, they wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it except assent to the change. With the tough change at work, I immensely appreciated my friends’ supports.

Now ridas have become the wardrobe that I shuffle through for work and it also comes with its fashion dilemmas, but comparatively minimal to other dress codes. There are days when I do think of wearing something else for an occasion. However my mind wipes that inkling away as I know that even though I have the option of reverting back to the pre-rida days, I wouldn’t want to. I am happy with my choice, safe from eyes that may look in a certain inappropriate way and content with the fact that it has not inhibited the normal routine of my life.

EWS = Essay 2 = It is true...

This essay is completely fictional.

It is true that public speaking builds confidence, but it is also true that to be able to speak for what you believe when no one else does builds character.

There have been a number of public-speaking competitions that I took part in. The feeling I would get when I would be up on stage, delivering paragraph after paragraph of researched and prepared work, would be worth a million dollars. I would know that what I’m saying is true and I had reference of other scholars who have stated the same the thing to support my arguments. There was an inter-school debate competition that I worked day and night for. My topic was in favor of the government policies of our country. Every day I would practice my speech and modify it here and there, trying to make it perfect. The day of the competition, as I went up on stage and I looked around at my audience, I knew that they would fall under the spell I would create by my practiced lines and I was confident that I was one of the best speakers among the other candidates. I had felt great and a little foolish as well. I felt foolish because it seemed as if I was an actor, entertaining the audience. I would bring out emotions of encouragement, inspiration, etc. for our government, no matter that my actual feelings about it were the opposite. This event didn't do anything for my own personal beliefs, but just built my confidence in how to speak in front of an audience or public.  

Being able to speak in front of a large crowd is significant in connecting with people outside of one’s comfort zone. However, when one speaks for what they truly believe in when no one else does, builds one’s character and one not only achieves confidence, but also obtains a following. This is what my father taught me. I never really understood it until I went for the debate competition that I mentioned before. He said this not just to me, but to my siblings as well. None of us understood it until we all were given an opportunity to speak up for ourselves when no one else did. My brother had an opportunity like that. He was a freshman in university and was getting his bearings in his academics and social life. The transition from school to university takes its toll on everybody and my brother was in the same boat. He had his midterms and in one of the exams, my brother was accused of cheating. My brother said that he didn’t cheat, but his friends did not support him. They weren’t sure either. My brother was called in front of the disciplinary committee and he clearly stated that he didn’t cheat. The confidence he exuded at the time confused the committee, even though a faculty member was a witness to it and he brought an almost convincing story. My brother was not fazed. In the end the committee dropped the accusation against him. The truth was that a friend sitting behind my brother was cheating, and because he did not want to get caught, he blamed it on my brother.

Not only did my brother face a challenge with confidence, but he also believed in himself and was not deterred when an entire committee thought he was guilty of cheating. There have been similar circumstances in which many get beaten down for not being able to speak for what they believe, let it be something about themselves or about the government policies of our country. My advice to all is to speak up, before it’s too late. 

EWS = Essay1 = Once I was, Now I am...

This essay is completely fictional.

Once I was ignorant, I was in university when terrible news hit the gossip vineyard. A senior girl had been raped when she was on her way hone from a birthday party late at night. There was a girl companion with her and a car slammed into their car. Three men got out of the other car and pulled the senior girl out and took her away in their car. The victim barely survived. It was such horrific news and something like happening to somebody that walked the same hallways as I did, sat on the same patch of garden in our university as my friends and I did, brought hairs on the back of my neck on end. The next day, this news had not ceased to spread and the raped girl was clearly not going to be forgotten for a while. My life went on as usual though, I went to classes, submitted assignments, cried over horrible exams and enjoyed my time with my friends. What I did not realize was that this senior girl who had been raped had her whole life changed. She wouldn't think the same way, talk the same way, and even see things the same way as she did before her terrible fate.

However, after a few weeks, I saw the girl walk around on campus alone. I was with my friends, enjoying a laugh over a grotesque joke and my eyes had gone to a girl wandering alone. A friend had nudged me and whispered to me that it was the girl who had been raped. I gave my friend a knowing look and then we went back to talking about trivial things in our lives. So consumed were we in our own selves, I did not give a second thought to the girl that walked alone.

I saw the girl again. She was in one of the senior classes I had taken. She sat at the back and since I was late, there was an empty seat only beside her. I made my way there and sat down, already hoping that the class gets over. There was nothing wrong with her. She listened to the lecture and wrote down notes as the rest of the class. But there was something about her; I knew something very personal about her. Her ordeal was open to the public and yet she sat there as if she was still like one of us. As if she wasn’t raped. A boy in the class got on the professor’s nerve for some comment he made and he was ordered to leave the class. I jumped up immediately and took the departed boy’s seat, so uncomfortable was I. How ignorant was I about that girl’s own discomfort at being snubbed so easily by me.    

Now I am just like the senior girl, a rape victim. I was astonished to be in such a position. My family background, financial or political was so normal that one wouldn’t assume that the rape was because of that. I was adequate looking. I was not an exotic beauty or a delicate doll, I was like plain Jane, and so it wasn’t because some mad stalker just had to have me. I was not even friends with anybody influential, so that some psycho terrorist could use me as leverage and rape me but not kill me. I was as plain as the Punjab province. My face must have showed the question in my head. Why me? The perpetrator had whispered hoarsely in my ear, his breath so foul, I wanted to choke. The sweat on his forehead was dripping on to me. He grunted off of me and then he said that it was because I was a girl, and I was worthless.

A couple of years after my bachelor’s graduation, I had been driving my car over to the supermarket close to my home. I had just come back from a tough meeting after which I may or may not have been fired from my job. That’s how my boss makes everyone feel, every weekly meeting was a ‘fired or not fired?” one. I got a car park in front of the supermarket and I opened my door to get out of the car. Something slipped off of my lap; I realized that it was my phone that I have a habit of keeping on my lap. I bent down to retrieve it from under the car and suddenly I felt a prick at my back. I felt a voice extremely close to me, growl at me to get into the car. Icy fear trailed up my spine, I turned my face just a bit to see if I could ask anybody for help. There was no one. It was late evening, quickly getting dark. Whatever was held at my back went a bit deeper and I had no doubts that it was a gun when I heard the man unlock the safety belt. He urged me to get into the car or get shot in the head. I tried to control the shaking that was rapidly increasing, hoping desperately that somebody would sense my distress. There were cars driving by on the road, some parked far away from where I was, if I shouted for help, I was sure they could hear me. The question was that would they come over to help me? I had no choice but to get into the car again, with the man sitting behind me, his gun positioned very close to my head.

He gave me directions to the place I knew well. It was close to the beach and so secluded, you could hear the air causing the sand to swirl around. The man suddenly told me to stop in the middle of nowhere and he got out. He had his gun directed at me as he pulled me out with just one hand. Fighting was futile. If I had to fight, I would have shouted outside the supermarket, but I would be dead too. As I stood there, my knees were almost about to buckle under me. They actually buckled when he pulled the trigger but the bullet did not hit me, he had shot the fire in the air, to just to let me know that the gun was real. Then he ordered me to take off my clothes and after that, I blanked out everything else that happened later.

I survived especially because after the rape, the man threw my phone on the ground and drove my car away. I called my sister to get me. The horror had just begun and it has remained a part of me ever since. Oddly, I remembered that girl who had also gotten raped when I was in university. How offhanded I was about it. Only because she was just a stranger to me, I had no idea what her name was or where she lived or anything. All I knew was that she was also a girl and some deranged, psychopath had also told her that she was worthless and deserved to get raped. Now we both had something in common. I would probably be able to sit beside her now.

I quit my job afterwards as a columnist from a newspaper and became a humanitarian. I would visit women crisis centers and help out with women who were also victims of rape. However, I would always remember the girl who I didn’t help. I had actually turned away from her when I should have given a friendly smile at least. How could have been so ignorant, so unfriendly, so inhumane? I wish to God that no one goes through what the senior girl and I went through. Unfortunately though, it happens more often in my country than probably anywhere else. The rapes have increased enormously and don’t plan on decreasing yet. What does a girl have to do in this situation?

EWS = Parable = A story with an implicit moral

My First Childhood Memory

Any girl in the world who has a brother has been in some way, in a similar situation as me. I was quite young at the time but this memory has been profound in building my relationship with my brother. 

It was like any other day, I was in my parent's bedroom, playing with my toys. I should have known that it was too peaceful, but then my baby brain was really focused on this huge, blue-haired doll (which was technically my older sister's and I had kind of taken without her permission, and then taken it to our parent's bedroom so that she wouldn't find out). I did not see my brother walking in and opening my mother's make-up case. He really politely asked me for the doll and I felt so trustful towards him at the time that I gave it to him without a fuss.

I saw him take my mother's favorite red lipstick and color the doll's forehead red and then put the lipstick back into the case and leave, leaving the evidence of his mischief in my hands. I was still sitting at the same spot when I vaguely heard Mum rushing in and finding her favorite lipstick ruined. She saw me with the doll and well, the thrashing I got was harsh, or at least I think it was because I don't really remember it.

Now, the same brother is my confidante, my friend and I wouldn't be who I am without his guidance.   

EWS = Fable = A story with an explicit moral.

This Fable was the first graded fable I have ever written in my life. So here we go:

Orange and Apple

Orange: "Oh man! Please God, help me!!"

Apple: "What's wrong Orange?"

Orange: "I can't tell you man. I'm so in trouble, I don' know what to do!"

Apple: "Listen, I'm sure whatever the problem is, it is not that bad that it can't be solved."

Orange: "You won't understand Apple. It's not something that I'm proud of and my parents will skin me alive if they find out."

Apple: "Orange, we have known each other since we were seedlings. Don't you trust me? Please let me help you."

Orange: "Well...."

Apple: "G on, just say it."

Orange: "I'm addicted to heroin."

Apple: *Silence*

Orange: "Apple? See? I knew it. I knew that you would judge me. Forget I said anything."

Apple: "That's not it. I'm just shocked, a reflex reaction due to the enormity of the news. When did this happen, Orange?"

Orange: "I'm not quite sure, there were new additions in the family. these oranges had come all the way from Africa and we became quick friends. One day, we were hanging out and Orange-O brought out this needle and stuck it in himself. Suddenly everybody wanted it, but I had no interest. They offered it to me but I refused.  

Apple: "Then what happened?"

Orange: "I refused every single time until one day, just to get them off my back, I took the needle. That was the day of my ruin."

Apple: "Oh Orange, no wonder you've been looking so pale and sickly. I just thought it was because of the change in the season. Not to worry Orange, I'll help you. I will support you in all of this."

Orange: "Thanks Apple. You're the best."

After 30 days of rehab....

Apple: "Orange!!!! What are you doing?!?!"

Orange: "Just this once Apple. Really, I swear."

Apple: "You're lying to me! You took it yesterday too. My brother was told to keep an eye on you when I would be busy. Orange, please don't do this."

Orange: *Sigh*. You're right Apple. This was the last, I promise."

After 10 days of sobriety...

Apple: "Orange? Orange! Wake up! Orange!!!"

Orange: "I couldn't do it, Apple. I was in way too deep in my addiction. I can't handle life without drugs. Just this once."

Apple: "Orange, look at yourself, you're near death and you still want another dose. What happened to you?"

Orange: *Silence*

Apple: "Another life wasted on drugs. Goodbye, my friend."

Moral: Between a battle of peer pressure and self-confidence, self-confidence should always come out the winner.

English Writing Skills = Need I say More?

As I started my first semester at S University, I had a certain course called 'English Writing Skills'. This course was a compulsory course and one had to pass it to take any other writing related course. If one failed this course, one had to re-take it again the next semester. It seems a valid reason, but then it was quite a shock for certain people failing this course since they all found out this little tidbit in session # 14, the second last session of the whole course. Me though? I was sailing, no cruising through this course on a fluffy cloud, with hardly any turbulence.

I'm writing about this particular course because it was quite an eye-opening experience as I discovered my own way of writing. I didn't even know that I had a certain style until I read my essays aloud in class or somebody else read mine (some teaching techniques for teachers out there :p). It felt so odd reading what I wrote aloud, it felt like I was opening my own secret diary and revealing all my dirty secrets to strangers. Not that I wrote anything related to my secrets. I wrote about normal things, but on paper, they felt like another world. Yes, the professor would read my essays in order to grade them, but she was on a different mental level than my classmates and myself. Hence, she was serious about the term private and confidential.

Also having to keep a daily journal, oh please! I was most annoyed about it, I didn't want to keep a daily journal that the professor had read and judged. However, I learned in the end that she was Switzerland, she didn't mind what we wrote and it gave an opportunity for me to write my thoughts on paper and have somebody read it, but make no judgement about them. Totally neutral. In fact we did ask her in the end that how is it possible to not make some kind of opinion based on what we write in our diaries. She said that because what we wrote is not out of the ordinary, we wrote about things that happens to almost everybody. Well of course, I made sure I never wrote anything too deep or extraordinary, I mean somebody is reading it! Just here and there stuff, occasionally threw in a bit of deep stuff if there was literally nothing to write about.

The one negative about this course was that my writing was already good enough from the start, I knew that. Not that I'm bragging or anything, but that was the negative thing. How do I make myself better if I'm already good at it? I needed to be challenged in this course because for some reason it didn't settle with me that all my other course are so tough that I had to give them attention 24/7. This course would be left behind if I didn't make it challenging for myself. In other words, it is because this course is easy for me, I wouldn't know it but I would easily keep it my lowest priority and perhaps lose marks in 'em. Things that one gains easily is always always lost easily as well. I guess. So I challenged myself by writing one essay in a third-person perspective. That was such a fail. I wasn't able to bring out the emotions I wanted. It felt distant and cold. How did J.K.Rowling do it? Her books were so...observant and yet warm. How Khalid Hosseini do it? His book 'The Kite Runner' was in a third-person perspective too and yet they were never distant like mine, the characters were so compelling. To be a great writer, one must answer this question first: How?

As I do go on challenging myself, I know Failure is not done with me, but I know that right behind Failure, I see Success too, smiling and encouraging me. Hence in my next few posts, I will be posting the those essays I failed at and those that I succeeded at. Ciao.

Interview = A time to sell yourself as persuasively as possible. Or you get the boot.

There have been quite many interviews in the past year for me.

One was for a teaching position at a moderately prestigious school. I messed it up by not bringing along my resume. When the headmistress asked for it, I said I'll mail it to you. She didn't give me her e-mail though.

Second was for an administrator position in a film academy. They asked that how did I find out about the job opportunity, I said that I looked at the ad in the newspaper and I google-d the academy (which I had not but I thought it spoke of my non-existent efficiency). They were impressed and asked me what the film academy was about and I faltered and couldn't come with anything and said, dumbfound "It's about film." They asked what favorite movies I liked and I said "the exorcist" (I hated that movie and will never see it again).

Third was for a diploma program in animation (the interview was a formality but one should still make a good impression). I proudly told them how awesome I am in art (drawing, sketching, Not painting though) and how anybody that has seen some of my work, has always praised it. They asked whether I brought it along and I said no, I haven't. Their look said "then why are you babbling on about it when you can not prove it with solid evidence you idiot". They asked if I knew about any of the softwares used in animation.  I answered that the only one I knew was photoshop ( I had never used it though) and I've used it plenty of times before. They asked what company software do I use and I hesitated for just a second and one of the interviewer's raised their eyebrows, I thought I covered it up when I answered correct that I used Adobe. One of the interviewer's closed his eyes in, I probably think, relief.

Fourth never happened. A friend recommended me for another teaching position at a different semi-prestigious school, the interview was to be at 9 o'clock in the morning. Great.
I woke up at 8, got dressed half asleep, actually woke up when I slightly burned my scalp with the hair-straightener. Put on some makeup and told Dad to drop me on his way to work. I was told to write an essay on "What makes a good teacher?" and after I finished, I had to wait till I was called. I waited, and waited and waited. I waited for an hour and half, during that time I even met a friend (who had recommended the job) as she was substituting there and got me some juice. After all that waiting, a lady came and told me to come tomorrow as the principal was busy. I took it as a sign that I was never meant to be a teacher. Always knew it but no reason not to explore all aspects to earn some cash in my free time.

The fifth and the most important interview was the admission interview to S university. This interview was just plain ol' weird. This interview was for my academic career, the most important aspect of my life was at stake here. And my interviewer's and I talked about Anime.

(Note: For those who do not know what Anime is, it is "A Japanese style/genre of animation. Movies and shows such as Akira, Princess Mononoke,Ghost in the Shell, Fullmetal Alchemist and Dragon Ball Z are all examples of anime. This style of animation used to be called "Japanimation" for a few years. The comic book equivalent is called manga."


Source: http://alankistler.squarespace.com/journal/2007/11/21/comicsci-fi-glossary.html)

So anyway, before the interview we were given a paper and pencil and were told to draw whatever. Great. As I looked around at what most of the interviewees were doing, they weren't really using their imagination. They drew whatever was in front of them, such as the window or a plant or a wall. There were some who were drawing from their imagination, I was one of them. I drew five expressions such as happy, sad, angry, bored (which actually looked drunk to me) and naughty. I gave it some personal as to how all these expressions would look like, such a happy face would have a bow tie and a balloon from its hand, the angry expression would have devil-like ears and horns and so on. As I went in and gave my drawing, the four interviewers were quite impressed. There were two that were talkers and there were two that were observers. The talkers kept on talking and asking questions without letting me complete any answer. It was frustrating and I wanted to scream out that "let me bloody speak!" But I didn't. I knew that it was a strategy to get me irritated and I just gave a serene smile while I half answered them. One talker wanted to know the story behind the expressions, I thought "Dude, there are no stories, it was just a top of mind thing" but I made them up and well, they were quite amused and laughed. They did get serious and asked that why was I trying for S when I got great skills to get into an art school. I told them my sob story of how I wanted to be a doctor and since that didn't happen, I looked within myself and then said that I found my niche (again). They were satisfied and I left. This all took place within three minutes. My future was decided within three minutes.

I got accepted to S university and I'm lovin' it. Post about that coming soon :)

So the conclusion of this post is quite simple, every interview teaches you something. Whether it's an interview that is just to kill time, an interview that would make or break you, or an interview that would change the way you see the world. Everything in your life teaches you SOMEthing. Open your eyes and accept the unexpected in a stride.

Maids = Masters of Manipulation

I live in Karachi, Pakistan. Our society in this dust filled, metropolitan city has a unique disability when it comes to domesticity.  The truth is that we just can't seem to accept the concept of domesticity, which involves cleaning the bathrooms, mopping the floors, dusting each and every showpiece and silverware and washing piles and piles of dirty clothes and dishes Every. Single. Day. Need I remind those who cringe with the thought that I have just accused housewives or even businesswomen at being lazy bums, what I mean is that it's not actually the women of the house who are doing 100% of the work. 95 % of the work is actually done by the maids that us women depend upon desperately.

The maids that our society depends upon are not the normal, hardworking kind of maids. Yes they are trying to make a living to support their families. Yes they come from miles and miles away from early in the morning till late evening risking the neglect their kids might feel, and yes, they don't have the women's rights as they live in a part of the city where feudalism is rampant. There are still those people who have made lives miserable for those who are actually PAYING them to work so that they can support their families, give a childhood to their kids and put them in schools and give them a bit of the independence they can get from the suffocating society they come from. For me, these maids are the thousands of needles prickling my feet everyday. So, I'm going to give personal evidence to the horrific scenarios and emotional stress some of  these maids have given to me, my mother and poor grandmother.

 ( The reason for these lines of maids was that our maid of 20 years, X, had left us abruptly for a new and better job.)

Maid #1 = The Serial Killer

This maid will be termed F because she was an utter FAIL!!!!!!!! Not only was she incompetent but she also had a sadistic streak that has made us thank God that she left.
F was a neighbor of X and had recommended her after our bafflement over X's resignation faded and we demanded that she send over another maid. What a disaster F was.

It took her approximately three days to change her tune. My grandfather would take his daily tea at 10:45 a.m. and the first time my grandmother told her to make tea for him-because she was really tired and didn't have the strength to go down to the kitchen-F made perfect tea and sent it upstairs. My grandmother was glad that she was able to make good teas as she already had so many other household duties, especially taking care of grandfather's failing health she thought to give the tea-making duty to F. Still she first asked F that will she be able to do the tea-making and F gladly agreed by saying "No problem baji ( madam) I will take care of it. You don't worry." The next day, the tea was down right horrible. My grandmother asked her about it and she said simply "I have too much work to do already and don't have the time." Irritated, Grandmother told her that they had given her half the usual work and F retaliated by leaving Grandma's clothes swimming in detergent in a  plastic tub in the back of the house. Not knowing this, she sweetly told us that she has done all the work and left by three, although she was to stay till four-thirty. It was Mother who noticed the clothes when she came back from work late evening.

Mother called our X and told her what a horrible woman she had sent to us and even X was surprised and said that when F came home, she told X gleefully what she had done and said "Now they will learn to not to talk to me like that. Let them do their own housework." Even worse, she made up stories about how awful Mother is to her and how we bad mouthed about X to her. Mum denied it and was outraged.

(We did not deserve such treatment as Mother paid these maids fair wages and nobody in the house ever treated them with contempt or thought them below our status.)

Maid # 2 = The Non-Terminator.

Now this maid was K because she was a bit Krazyyy. She was working at a house down our lane so it was convenient for her to come work for us half a day. My grandmother is quite vigilant about the comings and goings of maids on our street as she knows that X would take days off (because she would be mildly sick or a far relative would be sick or an aunt's, daughter's father-in-law's brother's daughter would be hospitalized and she HAS to be there. Something which is beyond my understanding as it is not X that is going to drive the car/ambulance that will take these people to the doctor/hospital. Where are the parents? Siblings? Even grandparents?). So that's how Grandmother discovered K. One fine day she was walking down the street and befriended her. Since that particular day, whenever K would pass by, she would greet my grandmother which is very courteous of her.

When X left us, grandmother approached K to cook and clean the kitchen only, at least that burden would be lifted off of Mother's and Grandmother's shoulders. K agreed wholeheartedly. We were glad and she started work the next day. What a mistake.

It took K a day to make us regret our decision to hire her. K's cooking abilities were mildly bearable, and the condition of the kitchen after she had cooked was Horrific! We wouldn't dare enter the kitchen without our home slippers on. Even then I would be terrified to enter, knowing that my slippers would squish the fallen scrapes of vegetables, crush the broken eggshells and have one or two stray cats attempting to get into the kitchen to eat all the food on the kitchen floor. The sink would be filthy. Dirty dishes lying around everywhere. The kitchen counters stained with scraped off gravy and what not. It was the most disgusting place I had ever seen. Even after she had cleaned it, there would be a certain stink in the kitchen which would attract cockroaches, HUGE ONES, and Mother would come home from work and would have to kill the cockroaches before she even went to her room to freshen up. Mother told K the next day and K would reply "Baji, I would NEVER do that, I clean and clean and clean after every dish is used. I swear to God I treat your house as my house and I would never leave it even remotely dirty, if I ever do, you can fire me on the spot" she went on and on about how cleanliness is godliness and Mother thought it as a one time mistake and let it go. The same day, K left the kitchen even worse, she didn't throw out the trash and we could see clear that a lot of the dirt and scraps of food was shoved under the stove and the storeroom was a party house for cockroaches. Yuck.

Mother told her again and again and again, even the food was getting worse, the gravy was 90% water and the rice would be stuck together and bland. Dad rarely came home to eat because of the sucky food. Not a good thing. K had to go.

Maid #3: The Man of the House.

Now this Maid is A, usually this letter is associated with excellence, not this time, this time A is for AAARRGHHH!. I pitied this particular woman initially though because she was the breadwinner in her house and her in-laws were big idiots. This time my dad was sooo pissed with the maid situation that he said he'll handle the maid that would come next. So came A and my dad told her to get her husband for her "interview" (he wanted to assess A's relationship and background). He found her husband to be a joke and the father-in-law as a typical patriarchal man. The pity card was played by A very well. We put her on the job.

As she started work, she was fine. None of us were surprised that things went downhill after a week though. We didn't realize how downhill it would actually go. She was a banshee, the day of the end of the month when we paid her half for a her half-assed work, her voice echoed in the whole house. Okay, Dad could deal with that, he told her to leave now and come back when she is calm. She did that because nobody messes with my dad when he uses his calm but rage-filled tone. She comes back with her husband who out of nowhere begins to swear and curse Dad. Not in the house but outside, on the lane, in front of neighbors. Great. Dad is again quiet until the husband has nothing to say, then he says that if A and her husband don't leave and if they ever try to come back, he will throw them both in jail. They hurry away, but then A comes back after a couple of weeks with her mother-in-law at 2 a.m.! She says her husband has sent her, she really wants money and will even work for it. Mom and Dad let them in and discussed about the way this whole situation was handled and again, rather than listening, she starts blaming my parents for putting her in this situation in the first place. My parents are astonished, they could not believe that this drama was happening in front of their eyes. They advised A to leave and I think they gave some money to compensate her until she gets a job somewhere else. 

The whole year my household was in turmoil due to changes in maids, until finally X's employers shifted abroad. Mother called her up and told her to come work for a while, if she doesn't like it, she can leave. X hasn't left yet. Thank God. Everything's right with the world again. 

Summer Camp = Do not underestimate kids. They can smell fear.

In my previous experiences, I moaned and groaned about an interview that I would not go to, like, ever. That was for a teaching position. Just to be clarified, I have nothing against teachers (especially kindergarten), they have the patience of a saint and practically do it for free by the looks of their paychecks (my aunt is a kindergarten teacher) and I have the utmost respect for them. I, however, do not fall into that category. I am short-tempered, patience is an enigma and I would rather be left alone to do my own thing. 

So what was I doing managing hordes of children in a classroom as a teacher's assistant? The truth is plain and simple, its called M.O.N.E.Y. Yes, I said it. Its a few K's in my bank account to do anything as I please because I don't have kids so I don't have to spend half of it on them as a good mother would do and I don't have a beau, so don't have to give lovey dovey things to anyone either. The only people I would gladly spend my money on (even if I did have kids or a beau) would be my parents. That's beside the point though, I tried my hardest to wake up by 9 a.m. during my six month no-university-to-go-to period. I did wake up on alternate days for the graphic designing course I had taken, but that was still not enough for my lazy side to take over and become a bum around the house. It was fear for myself that made me wake up in the morning and do SOMETHING. I looked for jobs in the newspaper every week, hoping to find something close by, with a good salary and not long hours. Thus when an ad for 'assistants needed at an art school' in the Sunday newspaper piqued my interest, I sent my resume pronto. 

I got the call to come for an interview to the school and I was told to report on June1. 

Timings: 9 - 2 (EEE!! Perfect! Come home and nap and then go out if any plans :D)

Total time: 2 months (End by July and university would start in August. Not at home all the time wondering what to do.)

Salary: Enough :P :P :P (Clothes, clothes, clothes <3)

I went home ecstatic, knowing that it was something better than nothing. Not that I was actually a bum at the time. I was freelancing as a writer, but my interest in it was fading because I wasn't getting to do what I wanted to do and mostly companies wanted full time writers which I was not since I was most definitely applying to universities in a couple of months and ethically I was not comfortable applying to a permanent job that I wasn't intending to keep. Note: Leading someone on is one of the cruelest things a human being can do. 

So comes the first day of my internship at the art school. Oh. My. God.

I was not prepared for the amount of kids that there were. They were tiny, adorable and energetic. Nothing wrong with that. That's how kids should be, but by God, I felt a hundred years old in front of them. First days are always confusing and I was more than flustered, I was outnumbered by kids and that made me sweat more than I usually do. Confession: Kids make me nervous. A teeny tiny disgusting thing about me is that I have excessive sweat glands (it's my own presumption) and I was not meant for cities that are scorching hot 24/7. I'll probably move to Alaska or Canada one day. So anyway, taking kids to different studios and rooms, where they were assigned did not help my sweating problem and I was wearing clothes in which sweat patches were VERY obvious. I knew that teachers, kids and parents were inwardly cringing at the sight of my sweat-dripping face and almost completely wet clothes. I actually sympathized with them for myself! My supervisor M, was really sweet and gave me a verbal pat on the back by saying "You'll be losing weight, that's a good thing" 

There was one teacher though who was a major part of this sweating. She asked for 8 pencils so I went down two stories, walked down a slope-like ground and got her 8 pencils and went up two stories again. Then she realized that she needed sharpeners and so I went down that same path again and got her sharpeners. I stupidly asked her if there was anything else she needed just for politeness sake and she remembered erasers and she gave me a look that said "Isn't it obvious that if I'm asking you for pencils and sharpeners, I would be needing erasers too." I was asking for it though, why did I even bother asking her if she needed anything! Still, I went to the canteen to get erasers, but on the way I took a paper from M that was supposed to be copied. I was grumbling and scolding myself on the way and thank God there was a lower staff taking stationery for another teacher, so I told him to take 8 erasers for Miss K as well. I was so not going to climb all the way to her classroom. I must admit that Miss K had the best classroom, the view of the sea is breathtaking from the windows. Plus I was carrying a bag in which there were three notebooks (God knows why), stationery, a Sydney Sheldon book (to read during break), my wallet and phone. It felt like it weighed a ton after my first couple of up's and down's on the stairs. M took it from me as she passed by, understanding the burden that it was.

I didn't converse with the kids if I didn't have to. I would take rounds to see if any teacher needed anything and then I chose a drawing class to sit in because it was in the middle of three other classes, so I could easily be available to the other teachers if they needed assistance. There were 4 other assistants beside me and we all had taken post inside different classes, but where I was, there was only me and even though the teachers did not need much assistance but its preferable to have somebody around anyway. I observed the children that were in the class and I realized that there were potential hotties, nerdies, loners and jokers too. One girl thought I was another teacher and came to show me her drawing, she was too young to know the proportions of  shapes and especially a bottle, even I have trouble drawing a bottle symmetrically but I was really impressed by the cuboid she had drawn, it was perfectly proportioned and I suspect she had made it with her name tag. I told her it was a superb drawing and gave her a good and a star. She instantly became my follower and declared me as her favorite teacher for the rest of the summer. I had forgotten how easy it is to make children happy, at least this particular child. 

by 12: 30, the kids were restless and were dying to go home and tell their parent about their day. I remembered a time when I was that eager and innocent, I thanked my parents for giving me those days of eagerness and innocence, it is a platform of my future which is now my present. So by the end of the day I had a list called:

List Of Things To Keep/Remember For The Rest Of The Summer:

1) Lots and LOTS of tissues. (I forgot them today :( Sigh)

2) Take a smaller bag and Not stuff it with notebooks.

3) Phone

4) Walkman (to listen to some music to calm myself down when the kids become annoying, they haven't so far)

5) A book.

6) WATER!!!!!! ('Nuff said)

7) Wear jeans/tights/capris (rather than silk pants, SILK PANTS!!!! What was I thinking?!?!?!?!?!?!)

8) Wear comfortable shoes (not that the pumps I wore weren't comfortable but my toes screamed to be free from enclosement after 4 and a half hours)

9) Wear lighter shirts (I was wearing a cotton kameez, I wasn't that stupid but I needed to remember that even though its windy outside, it will still be bloody HOT)

10) Money is a powerful incentive.

Rejection : When one feels like trash.

(This is my first ever post, so it would seem that I should be writing about something cheerful or adventurous or naughty, but for me, even though my cheerful childhood had ended, my thirst for adventure however had just begun.)

 As I gazed at my laptop screen, I thought I was gazing at a thug who was ready to beat me up with a sledgehammer. I didn't feel any sledgehammer, but the fear one gets when one knows that a terrible pain is about to occur. I knew what to expect, so my heart squeezed with anticipation and my brain recalled every mantra that tells you to breathe hurled it into my system in milliseconds. A few clicks here and a few keyboard taps there, I discovered my fate. 


I was 1925 on the merit list of students who had applied for Dow Medical University. This was bad, really bad. Students from 1 to 825 on the merit list were called for an interview. My heart squeezed further, but my brain had not given up. It would not, it most certainly would not give up fighting to keep me calm. I had locked my room and opened up the list online to see my fate. As an omen, the light in the room was not working so my room was in darkness with a gloomy glow emanating from the laptop screen. Somebody knocked on my room and that triggered it. A flood of tears streamed out of my eyes. 


My childhood dream had shattered.


There is a story behind this sob story which is that I had always wanted to be a doctor. Around twelve years of my life has gone towards wanting to go into medicine and as consequence, save lives. I picked Science throughout my O/A levels and let's just say that I was in some serious in denial. I was horrible in those subjects, except Biology. Chemistry and Physics had been my enemy for five years and given any opportunity of fun and adventure, I would leave behind the misery of studying tables, chemical formulas, Newtons' Laws and so on. Final exams would be the only time that I would keep some semblance of focus and barely pass through. There were different strategies in studying for O/A levels. O-levels was all about the end exam when you study for 2-3 months and you get good grades and get into a good A level institution. A-levels was studying for the next two years day in and day out to even come close to scraping up a B. I still pursued it, I wanted to be a doctor so much that I overlooked my grades, deciding that grades don't tell the whole story.

You had to be dedicated to Science, you had to live it, breathe it and eat it. I was not, but all I had known was Science, I love the human anatomy, I am fascinated with all kinds of functions, systems and organs that made our bodies into a breathing machine. That did not mean though, that I could actually learn it. Not listening to my parents say that my artistic nature did not allow me to be dedicated to Science may have been a mistake. In my defense, I hate it when one puts me in a box. Paradoxically my parents taught me how to think outside the box, and then defining me as a artsy person when I didn't see myself as one may have been one of the reasons why I chose medicine. I wanted, no, Needed to know whether I had what it takes to get into the medical field.

When university applications came around, Dow was my calling. I studied for it for months and yet I messed up the admission exam. My thoughts were not on what I was doing. Half of me had already known that this was not what I wanted and at the time when I was on the precipice of forever going into medicine, I did not want it as much as the 4000 other students that were sitting around me. When the results came near, the half that wanted this so badly became dominant and I would roam around the house like a haunting ghost, not being able to think properly, eat properly or do anything properly. I was regretting and anticipating the result simultaneously  and when the result day arrived, the pain overcame every other emotion. The tears were due to the pain mostly, but a teeny tiny part of me was relieved too. I could breathe again.

Even though my childhood dream had shattered, my life still continued. I had not applied anywhere else because I would not settle for anything else but Dow Medical. Hence, I had to spend six months at home before I could apply to another university. In those six months, I had a lot to think about. I picked up the pieces of my broken dream and put them in my memory, to go back to with confidence and feel proud of myself that I did not give up on myself.

It is the best thing one can do. Do. Not. Give. Up. On. Yourself. My parents had to drill it into my brain, my brother had to constantly hand me tissues. My sisters incessant calls from halfway across the world kept me looking for another future for myself. Rather than not uttering a word of my failure, my  family spoke of it so many times that it became a common topic and soon a boring topic and then just a thought. Not that they were harsh about it, they tackled the way they knew how to. Say it out aloud and then forgive yourself and then move on. I said it out loud, cried too many times, then I forgave myself and now I have moved on.

The grief of such a tremendous failure took me six months to get over. During my grieving, I went on a number of interviews for low-key jobs, became a free-lance writer, practiced drawing, read scientific/business magazines that interested me and stayed up to date on things that interested me and I applied for a graphic designing course. I took such a liking to graphic designing that I have decided on pursuing it academically and professionally and am looking forward to a summer internship at an art school.

Moral: There is always a silver lining to failure