So, I grab my purse, put some light on my face and rush out of home on the cool morning of November. I am excited and yet a bit nervous about this new job. The truth is; it is the first time I would be paid for writing and it amazes me. After 6 years of blogging here, someone has actually called me for an internship, and it’s a very new feeling.
Since the office is nearby, I take slow steps as I have left fifteen minutes prior for work and there is no way I would get late in just a two minute walk. I reach my new abode and time goes on until it is 9 and still there is no sign of anyone, I try to call the person who offered me the work, but I get no answer from the other end. Frustrated and annoyed, acting like a person whose loan got rejected from the bank, I write down a hate message, send it and go back to home.
Just as I ease in my chair at home, I get a call from the office asking about my whereabouts, angry and mad I tell the person on phone that I had waited 45 minutes and therefore I left. Patiently, he answers from the other side asking me to come back. I keep my hate feelings aside and go back to the place.
When all gets clear I slowly apologize for the unprofessional behavior. After the interview I sit with a laptop in front of me, and start reading about the boring Java and dreary HTML until I can’t bear it anymore and fill my time with a short game or reading school time poems.
And there, nostalgia hits me hard and I quickly type in ‘the class by Maryam Sadri Wala’. As soon as the crimson red autumn leaves fly by and white novel background appears, I go back to the memory of Grade VIII where I started the journey of writing. I think of all the plays we studied and played on stage, the poems we recited and hummed inside and all of the novels read and enjoyed like a free reading time ( even if they were course novels).
It’s been so long yet I remember all of the English classes; hating King Lear, pitying Hamlet, worrying about Juliet and laughing at Shylock. The memories come back, the Dazzling Diva; Maryam Bhen, smiling at us and saying, ‘Good morning’ and another analytical yet meditating lesson starts. I hear ‘O Captain My Captain’, ‘Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight’, ‘The Seven Ages of Man’ and ‘The Beech Tree’s Petition’ in my ears in her very charming voice. I thank her for these wonderful memories that ease me when the computer tech crushes my brain with its Hi Fi Low Slow world.
High on feelings with Slow tears stepping down the cheek, I feel new and old, remembering the prefixes, and forgetting the suffixes, living the past and entering the future and realizing that there’s a reason we can’t go physically back to our childhood, because we can always live it mentally inside us. As imagination is a wicked and amazing thing; it travels you without boundaries to any time and space and brings you back to consciousness in a blink of an eye.
As the amount of love for Maula TUS, for MSB and for all the school teachers can’t ever be held among the chains of words, because they are free and ever living, so I’ll end this here with three dots, because the feelings will persist on and fly on through
All times and space…
An ever learning writer,