Feb 13, 2012 by     1 Comment     Posted under: Non-Fiction

I am high on Panadol CF. It is past midnight and my brain cells are probably petrified, with the fear of tomorrow’s examination. My senses are virtually numb, which is why I don’t feel a phlegmy substance oozing out of my nastily inflated nose. It drips down elegantly, finding its spot on the neatest page of my practical copy. AHHHHH!! Gravity! (It is at times like these when my hatred for Physics exceeds its genuine level).

Wiping my own chaos off my handwriting, I forcefully unbolt my heavy eyelids, motivating myself to concentrate hard before it’s too late. A Schmit Trigger Circuit stares back at me. I’ve practiced it thrice before, but the wire connections have deceived me every single time. I pull up my sleeves, tie my ponytail again, and fling that cozy quilt off myself. I am finally focused and prepared to commence my final battle with it. My dauntless struggle with flu and its allied frustration was eventually going to reward me, it seemed. One fabulous fleeting moment of optimism, and then, it is Humaira Arshad who drowns my spirit by whining in the background. (A late-night concert had started in Race Course Park, which meant jarring voices would be there to keep me awake for a considerably long interval of time). This, in turn, would facilitate a lesser consumption of my mother’s beloved black coffee. Hence, my utter gratitude to those unparalleled voices!

I am a tad bit glum now, and am just wondering about my next strategy of study, when I notice my quilt vibrating. Is that resonance caused by those amplified shrieks? (Physics makes me speculate abnormally at times). NO! Of course not! It’s just my cell phone vibrating. A friend of mine is done with four of her practicals and is interrogating about my progress. I throw my phone away in exasperation. I haven’t even finished two, and there are twelve more to follow! Before my nervousness could’ve worsened, I receive another text message. It’s another friend of mine, coming up with the plan of leaving two of the most impossible practicals, on choice. This is an appealing idea and probably my next line of action as well. I quickly adhere to her plan and reply to her in the affirmative. Now, the mission seems achievable and less complex all of a sudden. Nearly twelve hours left for my practical exam, and I have exactly twelve practicals to focus on, I tell myself. (A not-so-impossible task, I again assure myself).

It’s Kameez Teri Kaali in the background now. The concert has taken a 180-degree phase shift, apparently. Heading towards the kitchen I cast an arbitrary glance at my shirt, which astonishingly, is black. I manage a silly smirk even in this arduous night. This is followed by a hasty fridge inspection, and consequently, the gulping of the sought, after-dinner remnants. It’s a momentary ritual and soon I am heading back to my room, when a plea arises out of nowhere. I see my sister’s terror-stricken face.

“Apa, please can you solve these numericals, and explain integration to me? Please?” (Wow, Apa? All that tension probably integrated me into one, I reckon.)

“Of course not! I have an exam tomorrow, so goodbye and good luck!”

Saying that, I charged into my room, thereby, avoiding that pitiful face to the best of my ability. I knew that even a faulty glimpse at it could’ve made me change my decision drastically. I was after all dwelling in an unequivocal misery myself, which would surely not leave me any room to treat her numericals, or sense her worry. It was a nausea-granting musical night, the effects of which were doing me no good, apparently. More music soon filled the air. It seemed as if a competition of earsplitting, high-pitched, melodies was at its peak. Yards away, a Mehndi function had just acquired full bloom.

Yellow and orange. Bangles and smiles….but, some lame ladies with disdain: My haunches are too big. I look so fat. I hate my body. You look great-have you lost weight? A lady whose frame is bulging with superfluous convexities is lamenting about her extra kilos while chomping mercilessly on a stack of grilled tikkas. The other lady who looks like a shriveled kishmish is playing modest, but silently thinking: sister, the general consensus is that if we threw you on a hard surface, you’d probably bounce. Being a woman surely gives one a chance to grace one’s ears with such toxic self-loathing: My arms are so huge. Ugh, I need to lose xx pounds. I can’t eat that-I’m on a diet. Everything I eat goes straight to my face. Etcetera, etcetera. A silent spectator to all this incessant whining, hates it even more when 90 percent of the time the person complaining isn’t even remotely obese. The object is mostly to fish for compliments and reassurance that: No you aren’t fat. You look lovely as ever! This discontent is therefore an unwavering aspect of most personalities, thereby enabling one to engage further into this self-created agitation.

Agitation, however, is not always a self-created one. At times, it just gums to one’s fate. An individual who innately dreams of becoming a doctor can possibly explain that. He’s surmounted in various petty problems (problems only he can understand) due to which he studies like a maniac, and ends up becoming an insomniac. Two years of industrious effort only deepen the fear of failure within him. After securing fabulous marks in both his respective intermediate years, he only questions himself further: “How safely fabulous are they? Will they grant me admission in a government medical college? My parents won’t be able to afford the lofty fees of a private one. Will I score sufficiently high in the entry test? Everyone says that out of thirty thousand students taking the test, only some three thousand will find their way into government medical colleges. What is the guarantee that I’ll be amongst those fortunate three thousand? What if I’m also not rewarded just like Ali’s elder brother? What if…?”

Bothersome and annoying thoughts often dominate the minds of many, be they based on study-syndromes, parent-frictions, friendship-politics, weight-woes or even acne-atrocities. The world eventually becomes a plethora of messiness for all those who’re struggling to wipe out their respective mess. They are all running parallel in this regard. The voices knocking the boundaries of their minds, though distinct, show correspondence to a tension in general; just like those congruent triangles which share a common size but have varying arrangements. I too, am one of the many people who fall in this assortment.

Neglectful of it, I head back to my Schmit Trigger Circuit…

The Author

Former Editor, "The Ravi" 2011, and graduated from Government College University, Lahore with a B.Sc.(Hons) in Physics.

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1 Comment + Add Comment

  • well it’s quite “mazay ka” to read and meaningful , but probably too long, I got bored of it in middle. you have amazing writing skills I must say, the way you relate things and describe scenarios, impressed :)

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