After breakfast my old roommates would check their Facebooks. Except nothing was ever going on so they’d just check out random threads in Facebook groups and look at awful memes.
That was Wah. Nothing was ever going on and you’d be looking for excuses to feel involved or spent. Kindof reminded me why I quit. Everything since my visit kindof reminded me why I quit. Except the things that made me want to come back. Wah’s beautiful. Beautifully mundane. It’s a pretty girl without a personality.
If anything, I’ve missed how open it was. I’ve missed how clean it was. Being at Wah felt like being inside a snow globe. Not necessarily one with snow. Did it ever snow at Wah? I didn’t want to stay long enough to find out. But it was a snow globe nonetheless. You looked up and it was clear. Clean. You could see the stars and the blackness of the night in all their splendor. The vastness of it all was overwhelming. No towering buildings. No noise. Lights where they should be. Roads that ran everywhere. Everything was connected and also not. The same road would go everywhere and still you’d question if you were lost or not. That was Wah.
I wrote half of this on my way back home in a car-held-together-by-faith-and-nothing-else and it was as distracting as any ride in a CHTBFANE with all the curses under my breath and the silent prayers to get home safe.
I originally wrote the above piece on the actual day I was there. I don’t even remember what state of mind I was in to have written that and what I had felt at the time of writing that. It always seemed like I left parts of everything back when I would make the trip. That I’d transition into this realm of disconnectedness once I was on a bus out of there. I loved Wah and I hated it. I was always stuck in the middle. One foot always out the door. Sure, it meant I had the best of both worlds but that didn’t spare me from the worst of it. Always badly trying to fit in to one life or the other; the wanderer and the homebound. Weekends were always the worst. Sometimes I wanted to stay back and sometimes I wanted to get the hell away from it all. Every Saturday was the same. I’d come back home from work early, debate with myself whether to take a shower or not, decide on not, pack only essentials and leave for Pindi; also home. Always double checking to see if I packed headphones. Always. I forgot my wallet a couple times; didn’t bother me as much. Could always do without.
Going back home, I’d think a lot. Sometimes I’d read or recap the week. I’d think I have so much to tell my family. That I have all these interesting stories that I can amass in a week’s time and that felt so cool. The thought of explaining it all to my friends and family back would keep me warm and slightly giddy through the ride. But the warmth would never really make it home. Over the dhakkay and the cheap samosa-chaat at Pirwadai and Mandi Mor, it would dissipate. I’d find myself wanting to crash on my bed the minute I got home. I could barely manage a salam. Always crawling into the bed, too tired, too broken and too worn down by it all. To think that a two hour long commute can do that to you. I’d go to bed without a peep. My mother would watch me, concerned and abashed, as her first born, her pride and joy who would rather come home to sleep and use the Internet. I’d be leaving around noon the next day. I’m sorry, mum. It’s not me. The sentiment gets lost in transit.
a head vs heart affair 