“You must write it all down, Mira, to make these sessions work,” is what my psychiatrist has repeatedly told me.
So here we are, this typewriter, a pot of coffee, you and I.
My psychiatrist believes that I need to open up. To someone, to anyone. She thinks I am overwhelmed with emotions that will one day, isolate and suffocate me. She also thinks that writing it all down as a statement will, perhaps, help.
I don’t know whether she is write or wrong. I don’t even know why I am babbling about her. All I know is that here I am, sitting alone sharing a story with a stranger, my story.
I don’t where my tale starts or to think of it, where it ends. So I will begin telling you my story from the day when out of the blue, I received a letter from Harvard.
It was a wan grey Tuesday morning when I received a letter to my name. It was from Harvard. The boom of the thunder matched my heart beat. Somewhere at the back of my brain, I recalled sending in my university application. But it was a long time ago and I had held no expectations. The local university had already accepted me and although, I always had qualms about going to an Ivy League, I sent my application to Harvard as a joke. I never anticipated that they would response back.
My hands trembled as I tore open the envelope. My heart was beating too loudly. Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped 20 degrees. I sent a silent prayer to Allah and read the letter. My eyes couldn’t focus on the sentences but then I read “accepted” and I had to hold on to the table. Then the tears pooled around my eyes, tears of joy.
I rushed off to fetch my phone and I called my mom, for she was a working woman.
“Mira! What is it? You know you are not suppose to call me at work if its not important.”
She chastised me.
“Mom, ” I took a deep breath, “I got in. They accepted me.” My voice quivered.
“Don’t talk in tongues, Mira. Hurry up and say what you must.”
“Harvard. They accepted me on full-scholarship.”
Static received me from the other side. Then mom spoke up, “I am so proud of you! I can’t believe it! My daughter and Harvard! On merit, that is!” She squealed.
“Yeah, mom. I can’t believe it either. I didn’t think they would ever write back.”
“Mira! I am so proud of you! Call your father, let him know. I will be back early if I can today.”
“Okay, mom.”
She laughed, congratulated me and hanged up the phone.
I called my dad and greeted him with the good news. He told me he was proud of me and we would discuss it all when he came home.
I read the letter a dozen times that day, crying and laughing at the same time. When my parents came home that evening, they hugged me and repeatedly told me how proud they were.
Mom and dad told me that it was up to me, if I wanted to join Harvard or stay with them and go to the local college. My mother was all about opportunities and she told me that missing out on Harvard would be foolish of me. On the other hand, my dad was quiet. My parents were well-off and funding in a foreign country was not an issue for them.
That same evening, we celebrated the dinner out in a five star restaurant. The rain had stopped and the evening was surprisingly cool.
Two weeks and a lot of exciting days later, I made my decision. I opted for going to Harvard, Massachusetts. I received my student visa without any problems and one month later found my parents and my cousins at the airport, waving me their goodbyes.
A girl travelling to a foreign country from Pakistan, all alone, was not easy. I had to meet disgraced looks every now and then but I held my head high at all times and gradually, I earned an esteemed standard in everyone’s eyes. After all, I was studying law from one of the best universities in the world.
In the beginning, I missed my family for never before had I stayed away for so long without my parents. But the hole in my heart slowly healed and I settled.
My parents and I, we spoke every now and then but over the years, I felt myself distancing from them. Eventually, the time came when we spoke once or twice a month.
A few months later, I truly started feeling at ease, at home. My days at Harvard were excellent. I had everything I wanted. Even though I was a Pakistani girl, a Muslim, I was accepted in their society. The professors loved me for I was an obedient student. I made dozens of friends who regarded me with positivity.
But the four years I was in Massachusetts, the condition in Pakistan grew deplorable. There were bomb blasts practically everyday and dozens of innocent people died everyday. There were killings over ethnicity and caste. The justice system in my homeland grew stale and the rate of terrorism in Pakistan rose. All this while, I was partying in another city.
One year after joining Harvard, I met the boy of my life. His name was Adrian and it was love at first sight.
Rumpled brown hair and striking blue eyes, he was one of the hottest boy in the university. I was pretty too, with a naive skin, brunette hair and baby brown eyes.
With all the changes I went through in the university, I never did drugs. Yes, I smoked and occasionally drank, but drugs was something that brought my standard low, even to myself.
Six months before graduation, Adrian proposed to me with a sapphire ring and I said yes. The relationship was serious and I thought I loved him. If it was Pakistan, I would have probably been thrown out of the house, considered to be a disgrace but this was a free country. Even my parents didn’t know about the engagement. Not that the engagement lasted long.
With graduation still three months away, all my fellow friends were invited to a private party. I didn’t ago because I had to study and Adrian informed me that he wouldn’t go either. But after constant prodding from me, Adrian went off to the party. I retired to my dorm room to study and soon fell asleep. In the morning, when I woke up, I knew something was wrong. I got dressed and made my way to the cafeteria. The hallway was deserted when my best friend met me half way, bleary and puffed eyes. I asked her what was wrong and she said she was sorry and zoned in for a hug. Confused, I repeated my question.
She hiccuped, “You don’t know?”
“Tell me already! You are creeping me out, Sara!”
“He died last night. He shot himself. I am so sorry! They say it was drug overdose.” She weeped.
She didn’t tell me who had died. She didn’t have to. I already knew it was him.
I backed off and shook my head, “You are joking. This is a sick joke. HOW DARE YOU?” I yelled at her.
I don’t know what happened next. I don’t want to remember. The rest of the day was blur. The next day was his funeral and i broke apart. The teachers and Adrian’s parents found out about my engagement and they all looked at me pityingly. They said it was drug overdose. And somehow, I believed them. I knew Adrian had a habit of smoking too much. And as much as I had tried to change that habit of his, I couldn’t. We had fought over this a lot.
I retrieved to my dorm for the rest of the month, grieving, barely coming out. But soon, my heartache turned into rage. My heart longed for Adrian and even though our engagement was short-lived, we had grown close. I didn’t grieve for Adrian for long. Why? I don’t know. May be I was not in love with him, after all. May be I was angry at him for being irresponsible when it came to drugs. How dare he do this to me, was all that swirled around my head.
Soon after that, I got myself a job at the local food chain. My expenses grew and I didn’t want to over burden my father. Maybe that was just an excuse because in real, I simply didn’t want to answer the constant questions my parents kept throwing at me. Yes, they must have had been worried but then again, I was young and wild and I simply didn’t care.
I didn’t think about him. I didn’t think about me. My body adopted a robotic routine. I graduated with flying colours. My student visa was finally reaching its end so I applied for a work permit in America. After a few weeks of struggle, I was granted that too.
But I was unsure. I had fallen in love with the peace in America. I longed to see my parents again, yes. But I was certain of one thing. I didn’t want to return to my homeland where innocents were being raged upon like animals.
But in the end, I returned to my country but just for a couple of months. Not happily, but it was by my own choice. I was my parent’s only daughter and I felt it was my responsibility to take care of them. After Adrian, I had started missing my parents irrevocably.
A few days later, after my return back to Pakistan, on a cold evening, my mom and I were snuggled under the blanket. We had grown close again but she still didn’t know about Adrian. But that evening, I told her and instead of yelling at me, she patted me as if she understood my pain. May be she did because as I told her more and more about Adrian, her eyes shined with remorse.
My father and my mother, they were still exceptionally strong but they were more closer to their religion, to Allah.
Over my time at Harvard, I had lost my religion. Islam was nothing more than a metaphor to me. But in Pakistan, with my family, I made peace with my religion. It wasn’t easy for I had changed. Pakistanis gave me peculiar looks, as if I was a disgrace. Just because I wore short pants and considered the ‘dupatta’ a pesky dress attire, they thought I was a snob. But I had also received respect from the literate people. I was a Muslim girl who had earned herself a scholarship at Harvard. It was a big deed.
In the two months I was in Pakistan, I convinced my parents to move to America with me. After a lot of prodding, they agreed, suffice to say, they had jobs and I felt guilty that they would have to leave their family, their culture in Pakistan for me.
My mom, dad and I, we all settled in Manhattan, in a decent loft. I was offered exceptional jobs at the law firms and I accepted the best. I grew potent in my work. My firm started showering promotions on me. I won cases which had been closed for years and I earned respect in front on my bosses. Life continued and even though I thought of Adrian everyday, I didn’t date again. Not for a long time. I started to believe that my engagement at such an early age was a bad idea.
Two years later, I met David. He was the youngest share holder of my firm and just a year older than me. He asked me out and I said yes, simply because mom was worried about my social life. He did tell me to keep it a secret and I did. My first date after Adrian. He took me out to the nicest restaurant in the downtown city and he made me laugh. I enjoyed with him and he made me happy. He made my heart race. He asked me to another date and I couldn’t refuse for I was having fun after ages. It was refreshing. This went on and after a dozen dates, the relationship turned serious. My colleagues at firm found out about us. Some were jealous and some were genuinely happy for me.
One cold December night, a few days before Christmas, I was lying on his bed, in his arms when he asked me why I was sad most of the times. No one had asked me that before and I fell apart. The tears came and an eerie silence wrapped us. Then I told him, about Adrian. He was quiet after that but he tightened his grip around me.
A year later, he proposed to me, on one knee with a diamond ring which sparkled like a star. And I said yes. Adrian was long-forgotten.
We got married under a full moon, on a summer night. We didn’t worry about our religions. We had no qualms about following any of them. My parents and his parents clicked together and we were one big family. I was promoted as the head of justice position at my firm. But the happiness was short lived because right before my first wedding anniversary, my parents died in car crash.
A few weeks later, there was a nuclear bomb blast in Pakistan. All the cities in the world were in a chaos. America was the main suspect. Pakistani police with jurisdiction arrived at my door step a few hours later, cuffed David and took him away, despite my protests, without any explanations.
They didn’t let me see him for months. I was disoriented and I was lonely.
Six months later, I received a mail. It was a statement with David’s signature. It said that he was a spy and he was working with CIA. He was also indirectly involved in the nuclear bombing. It also said that the law firm and his family were just a cover for his work. That was all they could tell me. That was all the letter said.
There was no where I could look for answers. I had no one.
That is my story. I don’t know if it even has an end or not. All I know is that I am left with a lot of questions. And the most important of them all, was David’s love for me real? It felt real, at that time. But now, I just felt betrayed.
Here I am, telling my story to a stranger. A stranger who I now consider my friend.
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