Not Again!

When a man sees his end he wants to know there has been some purpose to his life.
- Marcus Aurelius, Gladiator

I am sure the postman of my locality is curious to know why I receive so much mail and why he never gets to see me. I have a thick bunch of letters sent to me by business schools all over India asking me to attend their next phases of selection processes or at least apply to their colleges telling me that I am eligible. I haven't read even one brochure completely till now and I don't intend to. I have also learnt how to say a 'no' on the phone. I still get irritated when I receive calls from people I dont know.

I received my TOEFL and GRE score reports together a couple of days back. It was a pleasant surprise to see that ETS took only 16 days to help me receive my GRE report. But the content was disheartening. It told me that I deserved only 3.0 out of 6.0 in the analytical writing section. After writing GRE whenever I thought about it, I was sure that I would at least make 4.0 there. I failed. Perhaps I didn't write what they were looking for. Perhaps I didn't read their instructions properly. Perhaps I was over-confident.

I had fancied 115 in TOEFL. I was in fact expecting it. When I first saw my score on my ETS's profile, my first reaction was "Hmm! Okay. Sure". I had to accept it but later I realized that I was good and my score should satisfy me. I was happy with GRE though I also had thought of more than 1400 there. There were no big efforts put behind it so I never let even a bit of negativity effect me. I kept thanking Allah and He kept blessing me.

I am frequently reminded of a conversation I heard between my mother and a paternal aunt. It was at least three years back when this happened. My mother was telling my aunt about my early school days when I would go to her office daily after school-hours and she would bring me home in the bus along with my brother. She said that one day I had asked her to buy me peanuts and she didn't. Now, I remember asking my mother for those nuts several times and she did buy them for me, but this particular day it was different. There was a reason she wasn't buying them for me. She had no money with her. And that day I had told her "you don't have even a rupee for me". That was more than 12 years back.

My mother was telling my aunt how time had changed and how different and easy things are now. Today, now, Sunday, the 24th of February, with all that I can put behind my intense feelings, with what all sincerity I can attach to my words, I thank Allah that I am in a position from where I spend hundreds of rupees and I don't have to report that to my parents. I can just ask them for more and they give it to me. There are always reasons why I consider myself to be the most blessed. There are more reasons than the one I have mentioned just now.

I spend hundreds on cell phones, I spend hundreds on shawarmas, I spend hundreds on ice creams and chocolates and the list is enough lengthy. And I am the same guy who once quibbled at his mother for not buying him peanuts worth a rupee. And I am the same guy who knows how important it is to cry to thank Allah. I wonder why some people still consider me mysterious and complicated.

Last Saturday I visited my maternal grandfather's grave. I had been thinking of going there since long and finally got a chance. That was for the first time that I went to visit a grave all alone. I first went to its gate and saw the bolt shut. I came back to a nearby shop and asked the person there if I could open it. He said I could. Then I bought some roses and went inside. It hardly took me any time before I found my grandfather's grave. I didn't know how to react when I saw his name engraved on the tablet. Time was moving fast. I put some flowers there and some on the graves surrounding his. I stood there silently for a few seconds facing the quibla.

Time seemed to race by me. I wanted to stand there longer hoping that I could talk to my grandfather. Deep inside my heart I knew that was never possible. I wanted to be there longer. Something pulled me out. I shut the gate close letting it make the least sound possible and reached my grandmother's home in some time. I was happy I went there but I wasn't satisfied. I couldn't understand what had me leave the place so soon. I could have even prayed in the mosque overlooking the graveyard. I couldn't understand what exactly was going on. The only thing I know now is that I have to visit that place again very soon.

Earlier that day I had been to my school. As I got down at the bus-stand near Cherma's, I could recollect my old days. I entered Gunfoundry thinking about my father's old scooter in which he dropped me for 12 years. I saw the new name of the stationary shop; earlier it was 'Uncle J'. Then I looked at the straight streak of auto rickshaws lined along both walls of that lane. As I crossed the buildings of Rosary Convent I recollected the stairs in front of the catholic church there where I used to play with my friends for long hours. I visualised the parking space which was reduced by some construction activity which never succeeded to its objective.

It was 12 noon when I saw 'All Saints' High School' written high above the building which was separated from me by the sprawling football ground that lay before me reminding me of a scar I still have on my right hand's elbow. I glanced at the corner of that ground where I had skidded causing a thick and bloody bruise on my elbow. It was when I was in 9th standard running after the white ball trying to play this game called football. My only game was to run after the ball and shout whenever my team won. There were some students practicing cricket there this Saturday.

I met the necessary people who gave me the necessary attestations on my memos. I wanted to meet my PT sir and thank him for the discipline he had taught me but I couldn't find him. I met the new Rector there who asked me to stay in touch with the school. I couldn't believe that he was being so polite to me. When I was leaving I tried to see if I could feel any affection for my school. I walked staying close to the railing that had probably stood there for years as the only protection from the playing-ground that was 20 feet below. I could recollect standing there on the walkway in a long queue whenever I had reached late to school.

I saw the place my father use to park his scooter. I saw the speed-breaker that had played a very important role for years. I saw all the places I used to play. I saw the entrance of the church. I saw the steep slope where I used to run. I saw the crowded street because of which I used to come late to school at least once a week. I walked through all these places recollecting my old days.

Then I passed by the bus-stand that was a stop for hundreds of buses but only one of them was for my home. I walked though the wide road I used to walk daily. I crossed it from the same point I used to cross it. I walked on the same zebra-crossing I always used to take. I looked at the red-signal which could be manually operated to stop the traffic for crossing. When in the middle of the road, I looked at the vehicles that were desperately waiting for the green light, in the same way they used to wait seven years back. I walked past all the shops I used to walk then. I tried to feel something. I searched for it inside me. I wanted to find something touchy. Something. At least a bit of nostalgia. Something emotional. At least a bit of it. There was nothing.

Those were the difficult days. There were struggles. There were a lot of tough learning times. There were financial insecurities. There were friends but never closed ones. I am still in touch with a few now but they have all changed and I don't like it. I, myself, have changed. I like that part. I like this comparatively newer life I am living. I will thank Allah again if I get to thank Him enough. I have no doubt seen and experienced what many have seen. I just have some different perceptions. My priorities are different and straighter.

Every inch I get closer to my friends, I know that very soon I will be thrown miles away from them. I still prefer being closer to them. It's all worth the pain I haven't seen yet but could only imagine. Somehow I still find it unfair that I meet some people, stay with them for a few years, then suddenly get separated from them. It looks so, so unfair. I don't complain. It's just the way Allah wants. I only find it hard to swallow.

Some days a friend told me that being lean is a big turn-off. The turn-off was supposed to be the turn-off on girls. And I replied telling that there were better things to look for. So I first had to myself look for better things in me. I did find some. But they were all relative. I don't really know if I am apparently required to have something as a turn-on. I can as well hold a big piece of near-melting dark chocolate in my hands!

Just some days back I ate a complete pack of chocolate by licking it from its foil open and spread on my palm. I was even using my fingers to have it. It was definitely uncivilized on my part; I enjoyed it. Later it was my kerchief that had to bear the stickiness of my fingers and my fingers were still sticky even after I reached home. I know sometimes I can shed my mask of civilization - sometimes, only with chocolate. And yeah, there's more chocolate in the refrigerator right now!