Postcards

My blog has been silent for a while… actually, I think this has been the longest silent stretch ever. But that does not mean I have stopped writing. Ever since my last tour up north in the country a couple of months ago, I have come back and started to work on something. The blog’s real purpose was meant to be a stepping stone and while I can’t say that I utilized my blog’s potential to the fullest, I have taken a leap of faith.

It is quite extraordinary that while I try to chronicle the odyssey from Peshawar since my return, I have found myself being hurtled with stories from the city...At times, they come out so unexpectedly that they leave me in wonder. Was that a coincidence?. Today was another such incident, where someone painted a snapshot image from their past.

It was a bright Sunday morning and my father pushed open the door to the neighborhood barber shop. I caught sight of the owner behind the counter shaking hands with my father as I entered after him. Filled chairs and busy barbers met my father’s gaze as he looked around for a moment before turning back to the owner for a chat. I stood next to him and listened to their conversation in the constant, rhythmic snip and clip of scissors around me. The talk went to touch the subject of the extravagant VIP protocols all over the country and the sorry state of our nation as usual, but in that chatter something unusual happened.

The elderly owner started to recount one of his own experiences and he addressed my father, “Sir! I was a young boy, less than eight perhaps when I was in Peshawar with my younger brother.”

My ears followed his story as he continued, “the year was 1948 and we were standing on Mall Road in the early morning. There was hardly anyone else about on the road, and I saw the Quaid-e-Azam pass by in his car.” He looked into my father’s eyes and added, “It was a black Chevrolet with an open top, and Fatima Jinnah sat next to him. There was only one other car in his protocol.”

“Really?” exclaimed my father, “Just one car?”

“Sir! That is not all… When I saw him, I recognized his face. My brother and I gave him a scout’s salute and he responded back to us as his car passed, returning the salute.”

It was at that moment when I noticed the owner’s eyes had turned blood red and he was close to tears. My father and I shuffled uncomfortably before he regained his composure. “Sir! It was that moment from my childhood and the protocols you see today. Has there been any leader like him in this country since then? Not one.”

The owner being a retired army man, I guessed it must have been his patriotism that drove him close to tears… Maybe.

But for me, he painted a snapshot… Another portrait from the city of Peshawar. While I try to write her story, she continually sends me these erratic postcards from different people and sources.

But today, as I share this postcard with you, I can comfortably say that I have taken a leap from this stepping stone of mine, this dear blog which has helped me hang on to my dream of writing under the most challenging of situations. 

Now I wait with my wings spread out, not knowing whether I will land on the green banks of the river or drown in the rapids which lie between this stepping stone and the haven beyond.

On to our dreams...

Stealing Into the Theater

The last uncles had left the masjid for their homes after Fajr prayer, and it was still dark when I set out this morning. My eyes scanned the sky continually in the silent minutes before the sun’s advent upon earth. I set out of my apartment building and out of the street so I could find a proper view of the Eastern horizon; I knew where to go, the main playground next to the neighborhood masjid.

Sky tinged with pink, as I made my way to the main ground.

 In the cover of darkness, I silently walked and set out for the ground. A very faint streak of pink tinged the sky to the east. Something was different in the air, a sense of calmness and peace lingered as I entered the sand and gravel-strewn field. In the dying cover of darkness, I concealed myself from the Watchers of the Night and the Guardians of the Day. The place was deserted… On the road behind me and the ground in front of me, not a soul was in sight. The only figures I could make out were a few people in the Masjid courtyard far to my right.

Like a street urchin who has stolen into a theater where he isn’t supposed to be, I stood in the shade of darkness and waited for the show to begin. The serenity grew paramount as all spotlights focused on the horizon, the curtains were about to be raised. Like a lost child discovering a wonder for the first time, I steeled myself for the change of guard. The Guardians of the Day had already made the first move, with the ever so slight hue of pink visible just above the horizon. The Watchers of the Night slowly complied, exposing the underbellies of the clouds to the pink radiance. Even though the Watchers still kept control of the dark sky, they entrusted the clouds to the care of the Guardians first. The transition was sublime, the clouds coming to life, waking up from their slumber at the guardians’ touch. The touch of pink spread to clouds who rested further from the dark horizon, and the streak of pink in the sky started to increase.

Just before dawn... the view to the East beyond the neighborhood Masjid.

Glued to his spot on the edge of the field, the street urchin watched. The fear of being caught by the performers was not important; all eyes were fixed on the stage as the action unfolded. The Watchers had started to withdraw from their shift; the darkness was giving way to the blue of the sky I knew all too well. My awe-struck eyes scanned the stage, afraid that I might miss something… then I discovered a star, a diamond shining bright in the Watchers’ armor. As they slowly loosened their grasp on the sky, I kept my eyes fixed on the jewel in their armor… I wanted to watch them hand it over to the guardians. Ever so gracefully, I watched as the performers went about their change of shifts; it was a moment of pure tranquility as I watched the diamond being presented to the Guardians… the spreading blue overwhelming the Watchers’ cover, the star fading into the cosmos.

The Guardians were now really starting to turn up their stride, this was clearly their show. The serenity and peace now gave way to some sweet music. I heard one note from behind me, an unknown bird calling into the dawn… a few moments passed, the Guardians gave a fresh signal to the stage orchestra, another note followed from somewhere to my left. The Watchers had now completed their handover of the clouds to the guardians… Little swirls of grey, they stretched themselves awake in the pink of the dawn.

Look closely... a flock of birds above the minaret is visible.

The Guardians’ influence now started to spread beyond the stage that was the horizon. Black silhouettes with wings darted across the sky now, speeding to the Guardians who had now begun to stretch their dominance across the heavens. The pink had faded to a stronger gold; the Watchers were retreating now, their duty complete. The darkness only remained part of the skies further from the horizon, all melting away as the guardians prepared for the eminent arrival… the rise of the sun. In a final ritual, the Guardians summoned their orchestra players on stage for a final crescendo. The birds rose high in the sky, circling above the Masjid minaret… their black silhouettes visible against the pale, early morning skies.

A crow’s loud caw brought my eyes back to earth. Two or three of them swooped over my head, and I looked around me, startled. It had become bright, the darkness had all but faded and the Watchers had departed. Caww! went the crows again… My cover had been blown. The Guardians had discovered the street urchin who had stolen into the theater and were forcing me to leave. The show was almost over, and I stood my ground, adamant to see the climax. The sun had not come up yet!

But alas, it was not meant to be. The Guardians ordered the grey clouds to keep cover over the East… There shone an aura of gold from behind the thick mane of grey, but the sun never came. The curtains sealed shut in my face, and I was asked to desert my stolen seat. It was a grey morning as I accepted defeat and left the theater; I could not help but feel that such performances were reserved for the few. A chance wandering after sehri time was not the way to experience the change of guard between the night and day. For all it was worth, it made sense that the right to experience this show needed to be earned. The Guardians of the Day may have chased me away this morning, but I plan on earning a proper audience and a better seat for this sublime change of guard, the crossing of the heavens between night and day. It is needed more than ever to release my heart of the irony that was now settling in: the irony of witnessing the dawn, yet missing the sunrise.

Night of Rain

On a glass window, the rain drops fall… Drop by drop, a crystal mosaic forms; shiny droplets sticking to the glass and then dripping ever so gracefully down its smooth surface. Behind the mosaic, a backdrop of an overcast sky and wet tree tops excites my mind. The neighborhood cars and apartment buildings are all bathed clean, their grime and dust collecting in the puddles that now form on the street. On a glass window, the rain drops fall, only a figment of my imagination as I wait ever so expectantly for the monsoon rains that never arrived.

Monsoon in Karachi is one of those things that I look forward to every year. It’s just one of those times of the year which has its own charm, the rare cloudy skies, cool summer breezes and those rain showers which bring out the colors of the city. This year, Ramadan fell in what would be the peak of our Monsoon season, and even though the skies were overcast for the first few weeks, the rains never came. There were those occasional moments when I stood in Taraweeh prayer in our Masjid courtyard and it began drizzling, ever so lightly. But the drizzles lasted only for moments, coming and going on occasional nights stretched far in between. It just wasn’t the same. Likewise, this Ramadan wasn’t the same.

For starters, this was my first Ramadan experience since I got my first job last year. Gone were the easy school and college days, where you could doze off for a nap in class or laze off at home during holidays. I was apprehensive at this new prospect of how I’ll have to adapt my Ramadan schedule with my work demands. Anticipating a tough month, I went in with a plan to balance my spiritual, work and personal objectives. There are so many things that I have been intending to do for the past many months, yet procrastination, distractions and other priorities left me no chance of chasing them. Secondly, the past year has been relentless at pulling me into the fast lane of the rat race of life. Ever since I started working, I have fallen prey to the same work-eat-sleep-repeat cycle day after grueling day. There has been no time spent in planning for the long run, and I could feel the rust start gathering on my personal ambitions. And it seems right now that I’m heading for the path I have dreaded all my life, that one day I will look upon my personal ambitions as myths and dreams only a part of my imagination, like the rain I’m still waiting for.

I had gone in with a plan to explore the long term possibilities (career track, higher education) seriously and rekindle some of my old hobbies once more. I had planned to start reading more, writing more and discovering some more knowledge to keep on learning new things and break out of my stagnant state where I was aimlessly spending time online, playing video games or just wasting time. Hence, the idea was to have a more productive Ramadan, establish some good, new habits and come out the other side with a clearer direction on where I was going. It was a time for self-evaluation and strategic planning.

Alas though, the short term objectives for work have been overwhelming for the past month or so. I can’t be grateful enough that I have gotten the chance to work in full on a 360 degree marketing campaign, being able to channel good influence on most campaign components; I have been living an amateur marketeer’s dream. However, the need to plan for the long term was still strong because my future growth at my current workplace remains in question, with a likely glass ceiling preventing my rise. My current project has been extremely demanding and I have been spending day and night working on it; however, it has also been extremely rewarding in terms of what I’ve managed to learn. Therefore, most of my month was spent working and in spiritual pursuits, hoping for answers.

So even though I was apparently gaining in the short term from my work on the campaign, my long term outlook still remains bleak. I am torn in conflict for I have been using all my time productively and yet have not been able to find the time for myself, to squeeze in my personal objectives or plan my long-term work objectives.

This period has left me confused. At a time when I actually shunned all kind of distractions and tried to focus solely on what’s important to me, I found that I still could not find the time. So how does that bode for the future? Responsibilities will surely increase… at home and at work. So how then will I cope? The question troubles me greatly, and I struggle to find some way to continue with the plan I had made.

During this time, fortunately, I got the chance to get back on track with an old friend who now happened to be working with me. I eventually discovered our mutual love for some things, which included some of my hobbies and interests at heart. We discussed the love for books, for writing and for getting lost when traversing God’s green earth; I often found a few of these things in another person but I realized that there was hardly anyone I knew who shared exactly the same interests. Yet there she was, someone I already knew but had chosen to overlook for the longest time. We managed to find some time to talk in between, as I worked helplessly during the morning and afternoon. It was with the help of some of those talks that I finally mustered enough motivation to squeeze, bit by bit, some time to start reading again, to start writing again. I came to realize that not all my objectives can be covered through self-isolation. Sometimes, we need that extra push from a friend to start us on our way.

To look ahead for the long term, I realized that isolation and focus is not the simple key, but invited opinions and help from those close to us is what we often need, plus always a little faith. However, that only answered half my questions. I may have some clarity on how to get back to what’s important for me (my personal goals), but I still do not know exactly where the road leads. I do not know where my long term work objectives lead to? What is my next step after my current project ends? Will I be recognized for all the effort I have put in and allowed a growth path at my current workplace? Or is there an entirely different path… a path where my long term, hazy goals are related to the interests that are important to me. I am confused. My current work on the campaign has set me up for another trip of Pakistan like last October. I am confused, but I look forward to traveling the diverse-scape of Pakistan, and to discover new paths where I can get lost… get lost so I can find myself again.

Today is the last day of Ramadan and the monsoon seems to be over. The overcast clouds have dissolved to make way for the intense sun and heat which was missing for the entire month. Ramadan’s parting has left me confused, but still I wait… hopeful for some answers. The glass windows shine bright with the glare of the sun, dry of the silver mosaic which never formed. The rain drops never fell, but the road to the heart of Pakistan is about to open once more… so I hang on to hope. Pakistan beckons once more, a confused land with much to discover on every path; it calls out to me. Just like I rediscovered how a friend can motivate me, I hope to rediscover Pakistan. I am confused, but still I hang on, hopeful for answers, waiting for the rain… I hang on to faith.

I decided to share this little poem here, a discovery I made while riding a subway train in NYC in June; a little discovery helping me to discover new paths in more places. Noche de Lluvia, Spanish for Night of Rain:

A Heart in Two Cities

There was so much on my mind from my most recent trip to New York, I simply decided to try my hand on poetry for a change. I last wrote a poem more than ten years ago, in school. I hope this one brings out the message I hope to portray.

O city of bright lights

Wielder of Liberty’s torch,

Admire your open spirit, your people do

Love for you they express in art and song

A kid, I wandered your busy roads many a time before

Countless walks, my gaze always up

My eyes climbed skyscrapers

Rendered my curiosity alive

Again, rekindled my love your spirit did

The warmth from your people

Your love for heritage and history

All hit me like a kid

Again, like a child you rocked me into a slumber

As I rode the subway fast and under

Trains passed by left and passed by right,

A show reel played, the windows as passing frames

A glimpse of lives flash’d by, left me in wonder

A dog, her head resting on her mistress’ lap,

With skull cap on, a Jew held on to a pole, dressed in black,

Guitar chords playing, a Latino sang a silent song

All gripped tight in the New York minute

The show reel disappeared, the train was gone

Dawned a realization,

Jolted from my slumber, the subway released me

Mirrored another city, fast and relentless

A melting pot of peoples, colors that never mix

Chaos, a norm, yet a rainbow nonetheless

In bloom I saw it once

A marketplace with street crier’s chants, I had seen

Heavy beard and shalwar kameez he sported,

Walnuts and raisins were among the wares he sorted

Many a pound of fruit he traded

As thick moustach’d Punjabis haggled and waited

Ajrak-clad Sindhis asked a sample and ate it

Traded often a greeting too with a Pukhtoon brother

In a big city, it helps to know one another

The colors flourish’d in a treasure of rust

Empress Market, a waning heritage in the wake of dust

Beams of the rainbow, they live and they trade

Juggling rickshaws and buses in the city’s serenade

A moment’s lapse, a color turns pale

The rainbow turns black, the city’s life fades

Pearl of the Arabian Sea, she shines

Not your bright lights New York, but a glow sublime

Rough on the edges, a beauty still raw

The rainbow dances, shaping Karachi’s thaw

The subway released me, I surfaced your bustling streets

Climb’d not the skyscrapers this time

But a beautiful and significant other

Towering and magnificent, she invited me.

Stone archways beaming

The East River gleaming

I strolled up to greet her

Waving at Brooklyn beyond

A bridge lapsed in history

In balance she kept your pace and peace

 All suspended in symmetry

Sensing my fleeting heart, she coax’d me

In a rainless evening, a ribbon she pasted

A band of hues

A stroke of colors

A darkening Manhattan

A background of grace

Beauty so unexpected

My heart raced

With a rainbow in your skies, she coax’d me

“Surrender your heart,” Brooklyn’s guardian whispered

“Let it stay in the Apple, maybe a sown seed to cultivate later?”

The wind carried past me, but it got no reply

In silence I stood, the rainbow in sight

“The pearl has a soul,” I spoke into the wind

“The pearl has a soul, no matter how raw

A rainbow she wears on her sleeve, if not in her skies

Her people may suffer, but they live loud

They live in flair and color, a rainbow in her streets.”

“My heart cannot abandon the pearl’s debt

For all the years that she cradled me

My heart may take more abodes,

But cannot forsake one in debt

My heart beats, it lives in two cities.”

Empress Market, Karachi (Pakistan) named after Queen Victoria, established in 1889. Image Source: www.instecdigital.com

Beautiful Brooklyn Bridge... Brooklyn's skyline visible in the background.

While strolling on the Brooklyn Bridge, I saw a rainbow grace the sky (June 7, 2012).

Messi's Magic and the Spirit of Football

Brazil vs Argentina (June 9th, 2012) at the Metlife Stadium, East Rutherford, New Jersey. You get match reports all over the internet, this is the matchday experience report. :)

As I sat in the subway train, en route to New Jersey for the big game of football, two men entered the train at one of the stops and started playing a Spanish song. The South American flavor early in the morning set the tone for the day, as my excited father, siblings and I looked on at their performance in delight. Street performers and interesting subway passengers are a common sight in New York which I have come to expect at every visit. But as far as sport goes, even after many visits to the United States, the stereotype persisted that the major sports were basketball, baseball and the OTHER football. THE sport of football as we know it, and soccer as it is known there has a relatively smaller following. Even though the beautiful game has largely grown in popularity and following in the United States over the past few years, my expectations of the game atmosphere were largely influenced by the stereotypical image of the average American Sports Joe.

As the Spanish song ended, and the performers parted ways at a following stop, one of the Joes entered. With every stop, the number of Joes in football jerseys became a recurring sight on the train, making me excited about the game. Joe, who is a big sports buff in America, is mostly focused on the NBA and NFL for the most part, but is a casual follower of soccer. Hence, Joe would appreciate the big game not like the frenzied crowds of Europe, Africa or South America, but the casual first-timer on the way to his first football game, very much like me. Even though I am a football fanatic, I soon discovered that a football game in the stadium is very much different from the games I watch on TV.

At the New York Penn Station, where we had to catch the final train for the stadium, long queues for train tickets abounded, the station packed with fans. I immediately knew I was in the right place as I got in line behind all kinds of people clad in different football memorabilia. Time passed quickly in the long queue as fans shared their thoughts on the game, the players, and placed some bets.

“You’ll buy a Brazil jersey when Argentina wins,” a guy challenged his friend standing in front of me in the queue.

“Right!” he replied, “And I expect the same from you: money on the Argentina jersey when Brazil lose.”

The waiting lounge for the train was packed, and a stampede followed as soon as the platform number for the first train was announced. We joined the throng, eager to beat the traffic to the stadium. As the crowd started moving toward the train, the magic started. The Joes had started to cheer and sing anthems, which raised the ambiance of the train station considerably. Once we were part of the flowing traffic, there was no need to even take a look at the direction signs above us. We sang and cheered our way to the train, and climbed on board.

Queueing outside the Metlife Stadium.

Twenty emotionally charged minutes later, the excitement spilled outside the train as we walked toward the Metlife Stadium, which now loomed over us. Making our way to the entrance, I saw that the audience for the game composed of a varied mix of people. The wide appeal of a Brazil and Argentina game was not to be under-estimated, I thought. The melting pot of the Big Apple had spilled out its global mix of populace, who had all formed their alliances in yellow, or blue and white.

Every Asian, Christian, child, African, Muslim, European, Jew, woman, American, atheist, man, and Arab got neatly into new queues outside the stadium gates. A loud cheer erupted from this diverse assembly of enthusiasts, all clad in the colors of football; we were nearly in. The unanimous roar from the crowd was like a vuvuzela honk that jolted my sixth sense awake. There was an unearthly presence rising up around me which I had never experienced before. My soul felt elated and excited as I spun my head in all directions. The people went in one by one, but those waiting in line were rejoicing: colored wigs were put on with cheers and laughter; some musical notes were played on trumpets and drums. A large group of people had already made it inside the gates, and a loud cheer could be heard from their direction; the groups waiting in line followed, louder this time. The light clouds parted, bathing us in sunlight for a brief moment in the pleasant afternoon. It was the spirit of the beautiful game, the crowd’s rituals and excitement had summoned the spirit of football in all its high energy.

The fans climbing the escalators in the stadium.

The last barriers parted, and we entered the sea of fans making its way up the escalators to the stands. The spirit was much stronger here, and the escalators were packed with energy. Fans above us, below us, all waved their flags in the air; and then came the singing. In the melodies above me, I could make out a few words like: “Ole Aalay Oa Argentina!” but most of the words dissolved into the spirited ambiance. The Brazilians below us on the escalator heard some of the Argentine songs, and started off louder with their own as we continued to move further up. On the outside, we could see the queues at the gate getting longer, a field of yellow and blue getting bigger and bigger. The American Joes proved my stereotype wrong, and I saw that the football spirit was alive in America as well. In fact, she dictated an ambiance of unmatched energy and enthusiasm which can only be found in a football match.

I was nearly jumping on the escalators with excitement; a weird voice in my head wanted me to push the guy in front of me off the escalator so I could run on ahead. On the landing, we searched frantically for our stand. I spotted the directions and marched on ahead, leaving my brother to catch up behind me. Other fans darted from side to side in front of me, buying hot dogs, beer and popcorn from the concession stands. Loud music started blaring from inside the stadium as I counted the stand numbers passing over my head: 327… 326. Suddenly, the queues for the food disappeared as the fans started running.

THE TEAMS WERE ENTERING THE ARENA!!!!!!!

325…! 324… FINALLY!!! The atmosphere suddenly spiked as some of the loudest roars I had heard erupted around me. All the games I had ever watched on TV, all the FIFA matches ever played on my PlayStation, all the football documentaries I had ever seen, had never prepared me for THAT moment. As I turned left into the stand entrance, the high sun glare blinded my vision for an instant before I could catch sight of the field. One blinding glare later, I stood dumbstruck. Numb. Feet frozen. Jaw dropped. Eyes popping out of their sockets.

The flair and energy of a packed stadium, so alive, cheering, screaming, and singing, just coming out of a dark tunnel and hitting you in the face for the first time was a mind-blowing moment. I just stood there and took it all in, the sea of fans above me, below me, all around me; all seated around a gleaming, green football pitch with two shining goalposts at each end. The loud orchestra music overwhelmed the stadium into a state of frenzy, mixing in with the roar of the fans; the loud cheers fueled the game’s spirit as she ushered out the two titans of football. Both teams filed out in the center of the bright, green pitch as we looked on, frozen for a moment at the stand entrance. My heart had never beaten faster, and I nearly dropped my camera to the floor. As I opened my mouth to say “OH MY GOD!”, “Woah!” or “WOW!” the desi in me took over and what came out was a long, “OYE HOYE HOYE HOYEE!!!”

As the national anthems for both teams began, I started walking up the stairs to find my seat. Walking upstairs, I noticed how many of the fans knew the words of the instrumental national anthem music playing. The audience was not merely composed of casual fans, but hardcore Brazilian and Argentine fans from their native countries. This made the atmosphere even more exciting, and I felt the adrenaline rush as I took my place on my seat and geared up for kickoff. What followed in the next ninety minutes was one of the best games of football in recent history.

Kickoff!

The game kicked off, and the spirit went to work immediately. She used both, the action on the pitch as well as the sea of fans, to command the power and excitement of the arena. The tempo for the game was set in the opening minutes when both sides started playing some high quality, fast paced and open-ended football. The Brazilians commandeered the ball in the opening minutes to push Argentina back into their own half. The spirit was an invisible puppeteer in the arena, pulling on the strings of her players with one hand and pushing up the sound levels of the crowd higher with the other. Considering it was my first experience watching a football game from the stands, it became hard for me at points to pay attention to the action on the field. The surrounding chants, shouts and cheers were too enchanting to ignore and I succumbed to their magic as a stranded sailor to a siren’s song. The spirit flew around the stadium as the fans rose to create Mexican waves. A giant oscillation of magic, you could see her move as the fans’ arms shot through the air. I rose up excitedly as she went the entire length of the stadium and gave my raised arms a high-five.

Metlife Stadium, June 9th. 81,994 fans were in for a treat.

Ba-ba-ba ba BANG!! *whistle*

A man further down the row on my left was drumming hard on the plastic seat in front of him. The seat’s occupant was standing, whirling a blue and white scarf in circles above his head, oblivious to the drumming on his seat.

The drummer, with a Brazil flag tied around his head like a bandana, went at it again: Ba-ba-ba ba BANG! Two rows down, directly in front of me, another spectator took notice, and put a whistle to his lips, a shrill note escaping his lips after the last bang. They caught each other’s eye, and the drumming went louder this time: BA-BA-BA BA BANG!!! *WHISTLE*.  Among the flurry of colors and people, more banging on seats joined the chorus, always followed by a whistle.

Brazilian fans rejoice after the scores level at 2-2.

Down below us, the action on the football field grew more fluid and dynamic. The enigmatic Brazil side pulled a series of good passing moves to push past the Argentine defense and shot an attempt on goal. Each pass fueled a nerve of adrenaline in the stands, the drumming hands seem bent on breaking the seats, and the whistle got lost in the moment when everyone reflexively jumped after the final pass of the move, the striker closing in on the keeper. Sighs of relief and disappointment followed from both sets of fans as the ball went wide of the posts.

Similar displays of fan power followed in the mercurial game, the balance shifting from one side to the other. Brazil took an early lead but Argentina recovered to make it 2-1 at the break. The stadium was abuzz at half-time, long lines for food and the restrooms ensued; nobody wanted to miss the second half. The atmosphere was exciting, and the spirit seemed to be at work brewing something special for the second half.

Her presence was overwhelming as the crowd roared louder than at the start of the game, and both teams upped the ante after the break. Brazil bounced back to make the score 3-2. But within a few minutes, Argentina shocked everyone by coming back into the game to make the score 3-3. The spirit flew high around the stadium, a smile on her face as half the people in the stadium jumped to their feet.

Had we seen it all? The crowd’s chants were resonating; the noise could hardly be any louder now. Most fans, including myself, did not sit down after that point in the game; there was not much time remaining.

The cheers were not dying down! I questioned myself again: will there be a winner? The spirit’s smile broadened with every passing minute as the stadium of yellow and blue fans glittered, cheering their heroes in the afternoon sun. The banging on the chairs had died, and the man with the whistle had taken over, shrill notes escaping his lips: fee- fee- fweep fweep fweep! Nearby fans started hooting with the whistle, many took to swirling flags and scarves over their heads.

An Argentina fan waves a scarf in the air after their 3rd goal.

Time slowed down, and the minutes crawled by as both teams continued to give some breathtaking displays of football. The spirit seemed to be orchestrating all the sound in the arena now, the players matching the tempo of the game with the noise level of their fans. Her eyes glinted; did she have a final secret in store? It was on the center of the field, in the dying minutes, when Messi got possession of the ball; her broad smile stretched from ear to ear as Messi dodged the first player. I instinctively rose up from my seat, along with everyone else around me. Should I make a video? No, my hands were too rubbery to hold the camera. He started sprinting with acres of space in front of him. My brain lost contact with the rest of the mortal world, my eyes fixed on the action unfolding below me. The spirit’s orchestra was rising to a crescendo, her puppets and performers all mesmerized in the final act.

Messi was flying… My mouth was half open… The spirit soared high above the stadium!

Next moment: the ball had wings… My hands were reaching to pull out my hair in disbelief… The spirit had tied the Brazilian goalkeeper’s strings in a knot and fixed him in a halfhearted futile dive.

The football was in the back of the net…  The spirit was pulling my invisible strings, forcing me into uncontrollable jumps… A volcano erupted as the crescendo peaked! The lava was finally flowing now, a mosaic of blue and white, all jumping, cheering and singing. A clash of the titans indeed, the game between these two giants lived up to all its hype.  

The match experience was simply above and beyond my level of expectations. All the roars from the crowd, the wild jubilation and energy was simply magical. I figured the spirit of the beautiful game held an eternal presence, from the streets of Karachi to the shores of America. That day was just one of those days when she was out stronger and clearer than before. 

And a very Happy Belated Birthday, Lionel Messi! Your hat-trick that day added the perfect seal to one of the greatest experiences of my life. May your performances keep blurring the boundaries that define the great and the impossible. :)

My siblings and I... Hat-trick!

366 Nights and an Eluding Fantasy

In the vent in my bathroom outside the screen window, lies a small nest between the metal grill and outer glass pane. Bits of straw and hay gathered over many days carefully assembled together form a shelter from predators and the elements. It is not the prettiest sight to see once you enter the bathroom. It’s been present for a long time, but something always stayed my will to ask our cleaner to sweep it off from the outside, even though it was a barren collection of straws with no resident.

The nest reminded me of my own barren devotion to a project I had taken up, a project that would have been dead if it were not for the little lessons I learnt along the way. It was a project that I took personal responsibility for, setting an ambitious goal which seemed to be a highly daunting task. To publish one of my own works has always been a far-fetched dream of mine, one that I have often talked about but never really worked on. However, I learnt that with all your talk you need to deliver on something concrete or it ends up as a barren and desolate dream, never realized and much like the empty nest that I have kept seeing every day for months on end.

Today, it has been exactly a year since I started writing my case study for AIESEC’s Experience Pakistan initiative. An exact three hundred and sixty six nights ago, I sat up late at night writing down the first draft after long interviews with a few key people in AIESEC. It was in those dark hours that I finally decided to give that project a special shot. I honestly gave it my all thinking that if done properly, some findings may actually be able to help the organization. Also taking into account my short duration spent in the organization since I joined in senior year, I intended to make up for that gap because I felt indebted to AIESEC. Instead of one of those hasty assignments that you work on and try to get over with, I devoted a full, sleepless night to carve the draft to narrative perfection.

It was later that my course instructor saw the effort and agreed that AIESEC indeed had a story to share, and invited me to work more on this project if I wanted, and perhaps give it a shot at publication by entering it in a case writing competition. A bell rang somewhere deep in my head; an opportunity to chase my fairy tale dream? Another motive slowly took to my heart as well: the opportunity to make a lasting contribution to IBA, my business school, by contributing a case study. The bittersweet feelings of entering the corporate world and leaving the student life behind had consumed me. My decision to go forward with this project beyond graduation was based on emotion rather than logic. I had never fully realized the pains of putting a piece of work under a stress test for publishing.

After graduating last June, I took a break and kept the case study on the backburner. Procrastination soon ensued, and the dream seemed set to remain a fantasy. It was hard to force myself out of my static state and start working on a new draft, the worst part being that I had to do it alone. I started the slow and painful process of working again, evaluating the findings one more time and tried to apply concepts to get to a suitable solution. The case study was revised multiple times under the careful criticism of my instructor at IBA, the only other person who was helping me with that case.

Perhaps the only thing that served as my primary motivation at that point was the approach of AIESEC’s July Leadership Conference (JLC), and I saw that as an opportunity to enlighten the executive body with my findings so the weaknesses of Experience Pakistan could be corrected. I soon discovered that if your primary motivation is something more fulfilling than a personal fantasy, a greater hand from above guides you in your tasks you face on the ground. Actually directing my efforts to deliver a presentation at JLC helped me gain more satisfaction than writing the case itself, and the feedback gained from the others was invaluable. The case was revised with all the feedback, this time with more flair and motivation, and setup for a practical test.

Although I had left IBA, my instructor worked hard to run the case study in class the following semester. With the case competition’s deadline approaching in October, she integrated her test results and submitted our case entry for Experience Pakistan. Ironically, I spent the month of October on a work trip of the country, experiencing parts and flavors of Pakistan I had never seen or tasted before. This was a point where I literally felt that I was living the AIESEC embodiment of the experience we promise to our interns here in Pakistan, and really hoped that our case would come out as a top entry in the competition.

Come February, an email in my inbox alerted me to the result of my case study submission; nerves tightened, emotions peaked, and prayers escaped from the soul, all hoping for something positive as I clicked on the email subject “ECCH New Case Writer Competition”. Alas though, it was not meant to be and my dreams stayed a fantasy as I went through every word of the email carefully: “Thank you for your entry… the judges faced a difficult decision… we regret to inform you…” However, it contained a line inviting me to submit my case for publication.

I relayed the news to my instructor in IBA, who still suggested on more testing and further revisions. This time though, I was at more of a loss. I thought I had possibly done all to convey a solid marketing problem, and understood how best to strategically tackle the issue. I could not think of how best to proceed. My attempts to gain some insights from fellow AIESECers in Karachi could not garner much help, and I slumped into another period of procrastination. It’s hard to go the distance alone.

However, reports from proud fellow AIESECers in IBA last month, who were happy that an AIESEC related case was being taught in classes served as a major morale booster. And it was then that I decided to go over all the material one more time to find how best to improve our standing on the case. I figured that it was the small and pure things that served as primary motivators to push you over that finish line. The feedback from peers at IBA as well as the little wonders during my recent travels in Pakistan served as fuel that pushed me to write a more compelling case study for Experience Pakistan.

The nest outside my bathroom vent recently started ringing with the little chirps of baby sparrows. After the cold winds of winter subsided, the barren turban of straw I used to consider removing from the vent had become a home. It was one of the many little sounds of springtime that change the way you start your day. A gloomy Monday morning can’t remain that way if you listen to that little singing, with the elder birds flying in and out of the vent with a worm or two; a vision so sublime yet powerful that you feel motivated to start your day with meaning as you witness the blooming life around you. I learnt that it’s the little things that help you over a long and arduous year of ups and downs: the motivation from friends, the pursuit of a sincere and noble objective and the thought of contributing to a community you have been a part of, rather than the raw pursuit of your personal fantasies.

Yesterday, I saw the baby sparrow for the first time as it popped out of the nest and climbed on to the grill. It shook as it planted its two twig-like feet on its perch, and tried spreading its new God-gifted wings. Raising its little feathery head, it sang again in a hopeful tune, possibly contemplating flight in the days about to come.

Three hundred and sixty six nights later, I have also just finished putting in my final touches on the case, a long work in progress. With another attempt at submission in the works, I can only hope that it breaks through. Maybe such accounts are best told after one succeeds, but it is those little things you need during your trial, the push from those who can help you get over the finish line, that really matter. Dawn is approaching and the distant sound of early birds is already filtering into my room; I wonder once more if this is the morning when the sparrow takes flight.