Of Influential Teachers, and Lovely People

In our lives, there are two kinds of people. Those who see the potential we have, and those who don't. If one is fortunate, then one has plenty of the former in their lives, as compared to the later. It is these people who inspire us, encourage us to perform to the best of our abilities. It is they who give us the courage to be what WE want to be, and not what others want us to become.
Mrs. Khan was my teacher in Kensec. Before that, she was my tuition teacher when I was in Memon. It was she who built my dreams, who encouraged me to do something few girls had ever attempted, she who saw the person I could be one day. I am thankful that she was there, when I graduated as an electronics engineer. She gave me a hug that day, when I met her for the first time after completing my course. She's never hugged me before.

When she died, the world lost something. So many students, so many people who looked up to her, were lost, left defeated, at the magnitude of the evil that was done to her. It was a time of sorrow, of loss. For me, it still is. I wonder, what happens to those students who never knew her? Do they have such a role model in their lives? I do not know. All I know is that I was lucky to have known someone like her, someone who always believed the best of me.

IN THIS LAND OF THE LIVING

In this land, this land of the living, there are three things worth noting. First. The world is flat. It goes on and on and on. Second. Fire roars, and destroys before you even know it’s touched you. All living beings come into contact with fire at one point or another in their lives. Freaks me out. Three. We love being loved, but we can’t give that love back. It’s like we’re not emotionally capable of doing that. The human mind is weird in that manner. If no-one wants to give love, then no-one can receive it. Weird.

Past, present, future; it all adds up to one thing. Time. We go on and on, and live out our days. But there are days that we relive again and again and again. I’m looking forward to tomorrow with bright eyes, even though I’ve lived it a thousand times. Every time I raise my eyes to see something, I experience that feeling that I’ve seen it before. Not just once. It’s like déjà vu, only a hundred times worse. There are conversations I have that I’ve had five years ago. And five years before that. I look forward to meeting new people, because I’ve met them before. I’ve talked to them, I know the sound of their voice.

When in this land of the living, come to the shore, and touch the water. Scoop it up, and pour it over your face. This water that has seen it all; the wars, the famines, the tears, and the blinking out of the stars that we thought would forever exist. This water that has experienced what I am living through, this water that has washed this face before, but cannot tell me when it last did.

Where is the world that is ours? That is new? That we have not lived in before? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Is this dust forever going to roam the earth? Is this why I hear these sounds again, why I see these things again? I don’t believe in the concept of coming back; the concept of rebirth. It falls outside reality. I mention this experience, because you’ve felt it too. You know you have. You’re not crazy. I’m not crazy.

Look at me, I stand here, and I weep

Forever etched on this stone lies a little bit of what I used to be. On this stone is a memory that is etched in my brain, as though with glass. It is this stone that is responsible for my foray into the land of the living. A person can never have too many memories, and yet I do. I have too many memories. Memories tied to this stone, memories that remain on this stone, even as it undergoes a daily drenching by this water of this ocean. They are memories of a life that once lived, that had a place in this world, a life that had yet to be fulfilled.

A life that was wiped out of existence long ago. A life that managed to take only the essence of true friendship away, and left everything else behind. On this stone, this rock on this beach are etched memories of two girls, who sat together and played snakes and ladders, holding the board firmly against the wind. On this stone, two small lives talked about the presence of ghosts, and spirits. On this stone, two spirits met and bonded and smiled and laughed. On this rock, two halves of one whole mixed blood, and carved a promise to stay together forever. To this spot, one little girl came for the last time, and solemnly promised to shelter forever those words carved in blood.

I stand next to it. The stone stands, much smaller than it was all those years ago. The sand has moved, the ocean encroaches upon the land. I search in the deepest nook of this rock for those initials signed in blood. N and R. Crooked, back to front. Letters she had painstakingly started carving, as she waited on me. Two days before she was gone, we signed them, rubbed our mixed blood on them. The letters remain, faint in the memory of two little girls who lived so very long ago. One exists, the other one went to the spirits. In death, she proved to me that spirits do exist.

That last time that I sat on this rock, I was seven. I’m twenty-three now. I sit on the rock. I wait and I wait. The tears are flowing. I don’t notice. Story of my life.