Mama, I’m Still Trying!

Circumstances in our lives and my 5-month disappearance from blogging lost me many of my regular readers, like Elk and Alienora; two people whose opinion meant a lot to me, and who were with me from the start.

They would have known that I do not get along with my mother. At all. I have mentioned this in many of my earlier posts. Now, however, I’m too lazy to go back and dig through everything until I find them. But here’s one, if you’re interested.

So, to any and all new readers, I do not get along with my mother. At all.

In our somewhat segregated society, it is usually the norm for mothers to be their daughters’ confidantes, their best friends and their stylists. Contrarily, from the beginning, it has been my father who was my friend. Any and all advice I received from him, even to the point where I get him to chose between two outfits I want to wear some party! However the dynamic relationship between I and my father is not relevant to this post.

Recently, clashes with my mother have been reaching an all time high. Yesterday, I reached my breaking and snapped at her to “just stop it”.

Still, every night, I lay awake and think about all my friends who hang out with their mothers and snap funny selfies, and who sleep with their heads in their mothers’ laps. These girls think I have the perfect life. I have a supportive, liberal family, a 3.84 CGPA, a laptop, a phone, a car whenever I need it. I’m good at almost everything I do, teachers love me, I make my own living and the list goes on and on.

Little do they know how much I envy them.

They have the one thing I’ve never had; so I try. My siblings have long since stopped trying. They no longer get hurt when Mother ridicules them in front of servants or taunts them in front of guest.

I however, still try.

Sometimes at night I just want to go and hug her tight. But I don’t, because I can never be sure whether she’ll push me away, give a scathing remark or hug me back.

Sometimes I just want to talk to her. Really talk to her. And find what goes on in her head that she resents us so much.

Sometimes I just want her to say she’s proud of me.

So I try.

I tell her about my Computer Graphics assignment and show her the designs I made. She nods. I tell her about how girls had dressed up today, skipped class and hung out because the weather was nice. She nods. I tell her about how my teachers said they were proud to have me as a student. She nods. I tell her about how a famous political analyst is my teacher at college. She nods.

I say something about the maid. She explodes. I say something about food. She explodes. I say something about my maternal relatives. She explodes. I say something about her favorite child. She explodes. I say one ordinary word out of context and she explodes. She mocks me.

I cry. My sisters ask me why do I still care? Why do I still try so hard to be her daughter? Why do I still take what she says to heart?

I have no answer to give them.

Except the fact that she’s my mother. A mother’s love is supposed to be unconditional and all-consuming, is it not?

Is it so wrong of me to want that?

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Be A Detective…

…the best words a teacher has ever said to me.

Our dynamic Journalistic Writing teacher has been teaching us the characteristics of a good journalist and the basics of writing a news story.

After each of her lectures, I feel more confident in the fact that I have chosen the best career path for myself.

It all began with the Hardy Boys. Their adventures fascinated me to a point where I read around two full novels everyday. I was twelve at the time.

So started my obsession with being a detective.

I moved on to the works of the great Agatha Christie. Of the 66 mystery novels she published, I have read around 40, sourcing them from everywhere from my school library to old book banks and footpath stalls.

I have watched countless seasons of CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds and every other crime series mainstream TV channels have to offer. I am now on the sixth season of the popular show Castle.

Even though the love for crime is still there, the rose colored glasses fell from my eyes and broke around four years ago.

I came to know the reality of detectives in Pakistan. In simple words, there aren’t any detectives in Pakistan!

Which lead to swapping my Agatha Christies with John Grishams. But since the ignorance of childhood had successfully worn off and I was aware of the ugly truth of the justice system in my country, my dream to be a lawyer did not last long.

And then, Stieg Larsson, a journalist himself,  lands in my life on a dragon, with hornets flying around his head!

That was that. I was going to be a journalist. It had the perfect mixture of mystery, intrigue, arguments and opportunities.

And this ‘be a detective’ phrase just made me love it all the more!

Yet To Wake Up

Remember that dream I mentioned in my earlier post? The one where I was on cloud nine and I was so excited to go to university? Well, I still haven’t woken up!

The dream is soft. Like those you have where you smile in your sleep. You wiggle. You snuggle your comforter closer around you, sigh happily, and continue dreaming the dream.

That is the dream I am part of nowadays.

Although at the beginning I wasn’t that happy. The dream did start off as a nightmare. Not of ghosts behind the curtains or monsters under my bed, but of disappointment. Complete disappointment. Hopelessness. That I couldn’t go to the university I wanted to go to.

Now, I’m glad I didn’t go to that gray, serious, ‘proper’ university.

Now, I am at the unversity I needed to go to

Now I get to sit on the grass with amazing new people and talk.

Now I get to study from wonderful teachers with radical views. Views that seem are taken from my own mind. They aren’t from that common mould of boring professors. They’re fun, lively, and excellent teachers!

This smaller university is so much better. The teachers are better, the staff is better, the students are better. The environment is like in any Western university, where students, regardless of their gender, are sitting together on the grass and on the stairs, studying, talking, people-watching, laughing.

Laughing.

The sound of laughter is resonant around the grounds and in the corridors. It makes me happy. It makes my heart swell with joy.

Even the seniors daring us to sing and provide ‘entertainment’ for them was not disheartening. It was all in good fun.

The lecture our teacher gave us on Pakistan Studies today was magical, biting, truthful. There was a moment when I had tears in my eyes.

I have made new friends. Five excellent new friends.

We are all eccentric, whimsical characters. We are all unique.

We have the resident mystery-man. The slightly over-aged yet experienced professional. Who is here to study for the sake of studying.

We have a Radio Jockey among us. Who started her RJ-ing when she was only 16.

We have a looks-like-a-little-boy-next-door friendly guy. I have yet to know him well.

We have a very able take-charge girl as well. Serious. Studious.

Lastly we have me. I cannot explain myself as I have explained my new-found friends. They are the ones who must describe me.

I, myself, do not know what I am.

But if there’s one thing I do know, it is that I’m happy!