The college campus and everything I know in this strange land is quickly left behind. I sit in the back seat of the car next to one of my favourite relatives.

When I saw her on this continent for the first time, she seemed... different. Perhaps it was that I had never seen her in jeans before, or perhaps it was because the image of her sitting in the back seat of the her daughter's car contrasted so sharply with her social butterfly persona back in Karachi. But then she demanded a tour of my campus, asked lots of questions and delighted in everything I showed her and everything felt normal again.

She peers at me from over her glasses. "So," she says, "tell me about who you'll be rooming with next year. Did you pick him yourself?"

I nod and give her his name. She nods thoughtfully at his Muslim name.

"And why did you pick him?"

"Well because he's a practising -"

"Practising Muslim? Hmm, what do you mean by that?"

It takes me a split second to come up with an answer. Unfortunately, I start speaking before that has happened. "Well he prays and -"

The trap, however, has been sprung.

"Does he lie? Cheat? Does he say bad things about people? Does he steal? Fight? Is he a good person?"

Flustered, I nod slowly. "Yes, of course."

Satisfied, she turns away. I, too, turn to face the trees zipping by, silently grateful that such conversations and ideas do not exist solely in late-night conversations on the campus of a fancy, private liberal arts college, grateful that I have people like her in my family. Not everyone is so fortunate.

--

"How about these?" he says, handing me a pair of glasses. I replace them with my own and peer into a small mirror. Without the proper lenses, the whole world is blurry. For a proper inspection, I bring my face so close enough to the mirror that my breath fogs its surface. I make a noncommittal sound, take the glasses off, and place them in the small pile I've made for frames that have passed the first round of inspection.

"I like these, but they're a little too rectangular," I say. "I'm looking for something a little rounder."

He strokes his large, black beard, nods, and begins picking out glasses from a rack. While I wait, I look around the shop. The man's father, similarly bearded, sits in a corner reading something.

The sound of the front door opening - or rather, the intensification of the sound of Karachi outside - makes my head turn in the direction of the newcomer. Probably in his sixties, he walks in with a gait that may have been rolling and fluid in his youth. His hair is as white as his dark glasses are black, and his moustache is stubbornly in the middle of the two colours. He sends a loud greeting in our general direction.

"Assalaam alaikum." 


We all reply appropriately.

He then walks up to the counter and positions himself next to me and my pile of glasses. Taking of his dark glasses, he gives the man - who is still picking out frames with the right amount of roundness - a hard look. "Oho! Iss ko bhi maulvi bana diya hai?"

At this, the father walks to his son and thumps him on the back. "Haan ji, he is a haafiz now."

"That's very nice! Aik baat yaad rakhna. Aik dafa toh Quran tarjumay kay saath toh parhna chahiyay."

Two taken-aback beards bob slowly in agreement.

Somehow we always pick the very cold days to go out into the city. It was freezing that day. But it had to be done. I had run out of detergent and she needed eggs; we were planning to bake brownies for a friend's birthday that evening. The same friend had once told us that there was a Trader Joe's not too far away that was more well-stocked and significantly cheaper than the department stores closer to campus.

It was on the first bus that we realized that neither of us had remembered to bring gloves. The unusually mild Minnesotan winter that year had spoilt us, making us complacent in a land where every warm layer counted.

We waited at the bus stop where we'd switch buses for a while, rubbing hands and stamping feet. I pulled my phone out and checked the time. The bus wouldn't be arriving for another twenty minutes. It was too cold to sit around and the shop was only a few blocks away so we decided to get there on foot. 

Bad decision. 

After getting slightly lost and then getting back on track (but nowhere near Trader Joe's yet) we were cold and miserable. Giving up, we rushed to the first, tiny grocery store we saw. 

The walk back, however, was much worse. Since we were carrying plastic bags, there was no was we could keep our gloveless hands in our pockets to provide them some semblance of warmth. 

A few minutes of walking later, she stopped in her tracks, asked me to hold her bags for a minute and looked at her hands. 

"I can't feel them," she said. I looked at them. 

They were red and clawed. 

"Try moving them." We still had half the walk and a whole bus ride left. 

"I can't." She looked worried. 

We glanced around and decided to go to a small coffee shop a few feet away. 

Warmth.

We put our bags down and took seats and waited. After a few minutes, her hands didn't seem to be getting better. I could see panic in her eyes. We walked up to the counter and and she told a concerned bearded barrista what had happened. Without a pause, he filled a large paper cup to the brim with hot water and told her to hold it. 

All this while a man had been standing behind us. He cleared his throat and I turned around. He was wearing black, had spiky hair, and a wide smile. There was a hands-free phone headset plugged into his left ear. 

"You're at the right place at the right time," he beamed. He grinned at our nonplussed faces and gestured at the table behind him. A motley of about fifteen people was sitting, squished at a table that would have been hard-pressed to seat eight. "Today, we're having a conference for alternative healers," he said. "And we're here to help."

Fast-forward five minutes into the future and my friend was standing at the counter, clutching her cup of warm water while everyone at the table sat expressionless with their palms facing her, channeling their positive energy into warming her hands and I was trying my best not to grin. 

Soon the mixture of heat from the cup and the collective positive energy in the coffee shop worked its magic. We picked up our bags, thanked everyone and left, waving away invitations for tea.

Once outside, I smirked at her. "Do you believe?"

"Boston's awesome."
"Oh? I've never been there."
"Yeah, it's great. So livable. I think I might want to live there for a while. Then... I'll go back home."
"That's the first time I've seen you slightly sad about going back."

Snapshots of Fall

I

Applause greets me. They have been waiting for me and even though they do not yet know how to pronounce my name properly, one or two of them exclaim a butchered interpretation of it.

"You're here!"

"We were beginning to think you'd never show up."

"I'm so glad you finally made it."

Grinning, I take a seat as the class resumes. Yes, I have made it.

II

It is the time of the day when it's hard to tell if it's too late in the night or just too early in the morning.We sit cross-legged on the floor, each facing the other two, the points of a triangle, each representing one of the religions of Abraham. In hushed voices we speak, talking about the small, isolated differences in beliefs and practices, rites, rituals and stories amid a sea of many, many fundamental similarities. There is little doubt that we swim in tributaries of the same river.

We speak into the night.

The girl who has been working quietly at the table shuts her laptop purposefully, edges a chair towards us and sits down, chin resting on palm.

"This is just way too interesting."

Conversation continues. The girl's eyes move to follow the flow of words, spectators to a three-way tennis match.

A lull. Someone yawns. I check the time on my phone. It's late; I have to be up and about in a few hours.  Begging leave, I rise to my feet. The triangle breaks. One of the two gives me a sad smile and apologizes for keeping me up late. I wave the apology aside.

"This was important."

III

Lightdarklightdarklight. Music. Bad music. The only constant sources of light are the glowing bands around everyone's wrists and necks. People surround me. I can't really tell which ones are just staggering around and which ones are dancing. 

I stay for a while but it soon gets too crowded and hot and sweaty. Grabbing some like-minded people, I leave in search for something that fits my idea of fun. 

IV

I'm out in the city on my own for the first time. Even at half past four in the evening, downtown Minneapolis is pretty deserted. With hardly a car or a soul in sight, it seems like a scene out of some post-Apocalyptic movie, especially to someone used to the hustle and bustle of Karachi. The only person around is a middle-aged woman smoking on a bench next to the bus stop I'm standing at. 

I have one hand huddled in the pocket of my jacket and the other clutching my phone. I alternate hands whenever my vulnerable hand starts going numb. It's cold. 

I'm lost. I had not anticipated that the bus drivers would only mumble the name of each stop and, so, stayed on the bus much longer than I was supposed to. When I realized that, I panicked and got off at the very next stop. 

I check the time on my phone and then look at bus routes and timings on Google Maps. The bus seems to be late. 

In an attempt to stamp the cold out of my feet, I decide to walk around the bus stop. It is only then that I spot the bus I had been waiting for stop at a traffic light on the opposite side of the road. I've been waiting at the wrong bus stop. 

The traffic light turns green. 

My heart sinks as the bus jolts into motion. 

I break into a sprint. 

V

Chicago. H&M is a madhouse but my friends want to stay a little longer. Tired of awkwardly standing around, I walk out into Michigan Avenue and drown in a river of sights and sounds.  

People, hordes of them. Families. Couples. Businessmen. Window-shoppers. Women obscured by shopping bags. Hipsters. Accents. Hairstyles. Scarves worn in at least seven different ways. A sprinkling of Halloween costumes. A bride with her bouquet and groom and bridesmaids carrying the train of her white dress. Tourists with DSLRs for masks. So many iPhones. 

Fascinated, I try to guess the age, the gender, the sexuality, the socioeconomic standing, the religion and the ethnicity of everyone who walks by. I like putting things in boxes; boxes are easier to stack and organize. 

Lately, however, people have developed this tendency of not staying in the boxes I put them in. 

VI

I am terrified. I have no idea what had come over me when I decided to do this but here I am, at the gates of the Jewish Community Center. Apprehensively, I enter and find my way to the seminar room. 

Everyone here seems to know everyone else. With nobody to mingle with, I quietly take a seat. Part of me finds interest in the fact that I did not feel this alienated during my first few weeks at college, in a completely new country, far, far away from home. 

But then the lights dim and the speaker I came all the way here to listen to begins to speak. He's a Palestinian doctor and speaks of the loss of his wife and daughters due to bombing by the Israelis. He speaks, also, of forgiveness and understanding. He speaks of peace. 

We all melt together, differences set aside, into pure humanity. 

It took me a while to realize that the handful of fiery red trees sprinkled amongst the many, many green ones were not in full bloom but were, in fact, slowly going to sleep for the winter.

The fire of Fall had engulfed almost everything by the time my compass stopped spinning madly, pointing towards What on Earth am I doing here? one moment and This is where I want to be the next.

There are still days that set it aquiver, but those are becoming further and fewer by the week.

This is where I want to be.

KHI - DXB - AMS - MSP

Life is a whirlwind today.

Is this really happening?

They hang high in the air for a split second, brilliantly coloured baubles, vivid against the slate grey sky. Then, like rain, they fall to the earth, shattering on impact until the ground, stretching for miles and miles in all directions around me, is littered with the colourful remnants of broken dreams.

Undeterred by the constant bombardment, I continue my search and scan the glittering earth as I walk. I carefully pick my way to avoid treading on the already defeated dreams, but there are so many here that this cannot be completely prevented. The crunch of disappointment, the crinkle of hopelessness issue from under my shoes every few steps.

So many broken dreams. Seven billion people's worth of broken dreams.


This is beginning to feel futile. They all look the same, these dreams. I cannot possibly find my own and attempt to nurture it back to its wholesome form. I cannot tell one apart from the other, for while they might all appear in different shades and colours, they all share a fundamental similarity. They are all worthless, sent here only to be forgotten.

I shake my head. This is futile. Maybe I should forget too, and move on.

I turn on my heel and head back.

I dream anew. Maybe this one will stay airborne. Maybe one day I will be able to return to this land of broken dreams, cradle my old, shattered ones in my hands and fondly remember the times we spent together.

My suitcase stands in the corner of my room, patiently waiting to devour the contents of my closet one day. Everything else is done, the vaccinations, the paperwork, all done. Now we're just waiting. Every night I fall asleep wrapped up in a blanket of hope for the coming morning; every noon, I wake up and as I check the time on my phone, the same blanket becomes a shroud of disappointment.

It's too late in the day. Were today the day, I would have known by now. The office closes after noon. 


I await a call from the US Consulate telling me that my passport is ready with a visa stamped on it and that I may pick it up, a call that is the only thing that stands between me and the kind of education I have been dying to immerse myself in for months.

I have been waiting for over two months now, and the next few days will decide whether or not I will be on board when the plane leaving for St Paul, Minnesota takes off.

Today, however, was different. I woke up at around midday as usual, flung a heavy arm towards the bedside table, plucked my phone from it and saw that it was 12:32 PM. No missed calls from strange numbers. Nothing. But before my blanket became an envelope of tangible, weighty, constricting disappointment, I cast it aside.

There is a certain feeling of liberation that comes with the knowledge that you have done everything necessary to achieve something and now the final outcome depends upon variables you have no control over, and a certain giddy joy that I welcome with open arms. August has not been a kind month. Between wearing away the floor of my room with my incessant pacing and constantly checking the calendar, fearfully ticking each day off, between doctor appointments where I'd be told that stress had made my blood pressure rise and frequent, random outbursts of anger, time has both lingered on forever and rushed by impossibly fast. Now, though, I feel at peace. I have let go.

Life has not been particularly cruel to me now that I look back at the eighteen years I've been around for. In fact - and I say this with both gratitude and a little bit of shame - the cruelest moments of my life have been receiving bad grades or something else along those very lines. In a way, that seems to mean that things have favourable odds of working out for me. But if they don't... I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later.

With that in mind, I think it will be easier for me to bear the brunt of whatever, good or ill, happens, and make the most of my situation. To thrash and cry and vow to be unhappy and unforgiving if things don't go your way is to lose, to fail, to not deserve any more than what you got.

So, dear life, it's your turn to roll the dice. I'll be alright.

She sat on the black leather couch in front of mine. She had a slightly odd hairdo, with her red, short-cropped hair piled to one side of her head, and a Macbook. She, like me, was seventeen, and her name was Anna.

Her twin brother had been diagnosed of autism at a very young age, and her interaction with him was what had led to her great interest in the disorder. She had acquired an internship here, at the MIT Media Labs, and currently had the task of maintaining an up-to-date database containing all important papers that had been published about autism.

"So," she said, looking up at me as she took a short break from work, "where are you from?"

I shifted slightly on my own couch, making an embarrassing squeak as I did so. Should I tell her? Yes? No? How will she react?


"I'm from..." I began. Yes. No. Yes. No. YesNoYesNoYes. "From Pakistan."

"Oh?" she said, eyeing me. Reflexively, I stiffened a little bit. "That is so cool!"

Most of the audience had scurried to the cafe upstairs before the lights had been flicked on, the credits had begun rolling and the half-hour break between the films being played at the film festival had properly begun. By the time we had climbed the flight of stairs leading to the small cafe, there was no space left for us there. We tried awkwardly loitering by a small table laden with board games and little odds and ends for a little while.

Aware of how odd we were looking just standing around like that, we decided to look for somewhere else to sit. He picked up the guitar with a broken string, available for anyone to just grab and play, and headed for the small balcony that functions as the smoking area of the cafe.

I steeled myself. Allergic to cigarette smoke, I usually start coughing rather violently if someone smokes a few yards away. However, this time the choice was between exposure to carcinogens and being left to stand awkwardly by myself with nothing to do other than poking at the dice that lay next to a game of Snakes and Ladders. Obviously, I chose the former, taking a deep breath and letting peer pressure force me into the smoking area.

It wasn't so bad, initially, probably because the balcony was open and fresh air kept wafting in. He began strumming on the guitar. My feet began tapping in time with the rhythm while my hands busied themselves in sending a few dozen texts. It took me a while to realize we had company.

I cannot recall if they'd been sitting there when we walked in, or if they had arrived when I wasn't paying attention, but there were two others with us, a man and a woman.

He was tall and broad and bearded, and wore a very creased pale green kurta. He was standing, leaning on the wall. She was dark and deathly thin and sat with her elbows on the table. A bright red phone lay near her right hand, which was currently occupied.

She was smoking.

I forcibly turned my head away from her and began staring into the depths of a pedestal fan beside me, partly to save the glowing end of her cigarette from one of my death-glares, and partly in an attempt to minimize the smoke that reached my lungs.

The whirring of the fan, the twangs from my companion's guitar, and my own deliberately minimal breathing left my mind in a sort of trance, one where it becomes easy to pay attention to conversations - so easy, in fact, that they become embedded into your memory.

He had missed the film about the Afghani girls who had formed a football team after the Taliban has been forced out of Kabul. She had seen it more than once. She had even worked with the organization that had made the film; she was a freelancer. He was interested and pressed her for information. She gladly gave it. He ran out of questions and the conversation became trivial.

"That's Arabic? What does it say?" he asked. I turned to face the two in time to see him point at a shiny metallic bracelet she wore on her left wrist.

She gave the slightest of shrugs. "Oh, it's just the four Quls."

"So you're religious?"

"I'm an atheist," she replied almost callously, shrugging again.

For a split second, something horribly like seething rage washed over me. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it evaporated, only to be replaced by shame and bewilderment. I was confused about what had just happened to me. Quickly, I reassessed everything that had taken place in the past minute or so to figure out what had enraged me so before asking myself a few questions. Did I have a problem with atheism? No, I replied to myself, I did not. People have the right to believe in or not believe in whatever they like. And yet, something about the woman's callousness had upset me.

It was in that split second that I understood the foundation of all the religious intolerance around us, from the strict, scarily ridiculous Blasphemy laws, to minority discrimination. With something as personal as religion, differences in beliefs can feel a lot like a personal attack.

In the same split second, I also realized the true meaning of religious tolerance. It is not 'religious indifference' which is what, I now understand, most of my non-religious 'secular' friends practice. No, tolerance means accepting that people may do, say, or believe in things that might upset you and also accept that they have the right to do so - unless of course, it's a personal attack, but we're not getting into that - and that while you also have the right to be upset about it, talk about it, or even write a blog post about it, you do not have the right to harm them for their views or force your views on them.