Undergraduate / I strive to balance my identity between iPads and Cow Pies [4]

Some students have a background or story that is so central to their identity that they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.

Chacha Sultan's thin, long face tilts in surprise and he looks me up and down incredulously. The landowner's daughter, dressed in jeans and a Ramones t-shirt, wishes to milk a cow - what will my father say? I smile sheepishly and insist he wouldn't care as Chacha walks me to the shed, still trying to gauge whether he should allow me to do so.

I squat uncomfortably in my skinny jeans and Chacha Sultan drops to the ground in his loose shalwar. We are now at eye level with the udders. His cautious hesitation suddenly morphs into extreme enthusiasm. He forcefully grabs two udders and pulls - they make weird, squidgy sounds as they started releasing thin streams of milk. I turn back to see how the cow is doing and am met with a glassy eyed, oblivious expression as she chews cud like a bored teenage girl chewing gum. Chacha keeps milking, and gestures me to do the same. Now slightly nervous that I'll be kicked in the face, I manage to hold and squeeze as tight as I can. Nothing. I try again and this time pretend the udder is a sachet of ketchup, from which I have to squeeze out the last, stubborn bit. Finally there is a sputtering small stream. Chacha Sultan whoops.

For the longest time, the villagers living on our lands would disallow me from sitting on the floor with them, taking my dishes to the kitchen and helping with other chores on the farm. I failed to understand how I was different from other girls my age in the village but whenever I questioned the basis for this distinction, the answer was always the same. The landowner's daughter simply could not get her hands dirty. The more they resisted however, the more I pushed back.

The area near the cows is filled with the smell of dung. One of the village girls grabs some and slams it on the wall. I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut, as she places some dung in my extended hand. It owes its sludgy, wet texture to digested grass and I quickly splat it on the wall. The wall now carries a dung cake with my hand prints, uneven and larger than the others. The henna pattern I had put on my hand for Eid is covered with cow waste but I bask in the pungent smell of victory. I continue to make dung cakes for the new few hours - although I do panic a bit when the stench doesn't leave my hand even after two bars of soap are aggressively utilized.

Balancing a life between the village and the city, I strive to balance my identity between iPads and cow pies. Getting my hands dirty is my way of embracing the village life and connecting to my roots. As I converse enthusiastically about the newest restaurant with my school friends in Lahore, I praise breakfast parathas in the village. While my classmates and I gossip and garble about the latest developments in a reality show, in the village I talk about the harvest, the hand pump that needs repair, and the orange tree that has bloomed so beautifully after a decade of no fruit. Experiences like learning how to milk a cow, or handling cow waste are looked down upon by my classmates, but for me they are an opportunity to break away from the city stereotypes and my privileged status in the village in order to step out of my comfort zone and experience life to its fullest.