A Routine Walk
The familiar sound of the bells brought the class to an abrupt halt. Dr Gupta stopped midway through his lecture, but before I could pounce on this window of opportunity, he bolted out of the room with his characteristic "see you in the next class". Sigh. I put the battered physics book in my bag, and made my way through the four flights of stairs, as the arching trees gave way to the gray concrete that marked the exit to my world, and a door into a world I did not fully understand. Hesitantly pulling myself out, I was greeted by the landmark of central Mohammad Pur: the Town Hall. Once an imperious British architecture that loomed over a frightened 10 year old boy, the town hall bazaar had slowly evolved into his favorite hub for a delicious biriyani. As the red faded with each passing year, each uncovered brick got lost beneath a sea of electoral posters. But the red brick structure was a constant, unchanging through time, ageing as if in step with me.
Left turn. I had barely walked ten paces when my preoccupation was interrupted by snippets of Urdu. I looked up to see a dark woman conversing exuberantly with child, while putting up decorations for the imminent Muharram. The glint in her eyes, as she affectionately held her son, told a story contrary to the one I had come to expect over the years and made me question my perception of how they reacted to the hardships of a refugee camp. During my last trip to Geneva Camp, courtesy of a few friends I made there, I had found these 'stateless' citizens, ones who shared a common restroom with a dozen other families and lived in boxlike apartments, ready to embrace any visitor with a smile and a cup of tea.
I walked away towards the right where a sea of white kufis dispersed from the gates of the local mosque. Timidly pushing my way through, I searched for the familiar eyes that once looked down at me as I relentlessly questioned their beliefs, just as I looked down at them. But my search did not bear the expected results, but rather provided me with a few curt nods and an odd smile, a sign of an understanding fostered by engaging dialogues over the past few years. I walked away from Shaheed Park Masjid, distancing myself from a boundary which I had once attempted to escape, the "shackles" of which I had once despised.
I trudged along the road, confused, straying away from the uncovered pavement, when my eyes fell on the familiar turf that was the public field of Salimulla Road. The memory of the recent Cricket World Cup gushed through me, the matches of which two hundred people watched through a hired projector. Sitting in the midst of the roaring crowd, I had somehow, against all the intuition I had garnered through the years, joined in with the common voice that thoroughly believed it to be the sole guiding light of the team.
As I counted my steps to my house, I pondered on how I had become part of what I had dismissed; how easy I had found being engaged in my community to be. Closing the door behind me as I entered my room, I wondered what happened to the Mohaimin who looked down at his community, who constantly wondered why they were so happy to make borders for themselves, and quietly brood in them, never striving for something more. I was an outcast, a proud anomaly. As oft taken road bore through the rains it greeted it with aplomb every year, I slowly came to realize how this community I shunned helped me grow, and how my very existence and my thoughts are defined by it. Although my position this community continues to baffle me every day as I adapt, I look around with a smile to find myself engaged with what is around me, convinced that I am product of my environment, and harboring a small hope that, somehow, my community is a product of me.
This is a part of my common app essay, the only paragraph I am unsure about in both content and prose. The last line is sooo big. Can you help me cut it down without losing the impact? I have been staring at this for a month, so everything about this essay looks right to me.
And is the idea of my change in perception clear, although not crystal clear?
I was a little lost in the story. At the end you say you shunned the community? (I don't think it's possible to shun a community, but that's semantics.) I didn't get that feeling in the essay. It sounded as though you were in step with the community. Someone who is an outcast wouldn't notice everything you notice. As an outsider, I'm unfamiliar with the political situations etc., so I found your analytical points hard to follow. I enjoyed the images you used such as "sea of white kufis" and the "Salimulla Road." I would have liked you to develop these images with more intense descriptions of the people. It's really too bad that you already submitted it. With some revision, this essay would be fantastic.
I get what you said about describing things with more intensity, and I agree that I should have done that more.
Well, the past about me being an outcast...in that case, what I had tried to say was that I felt that I was an outcast, not that I actually was. I felt that I was not part of whatever there was around me, and I was wrong, because even after trying my best, I ended up realizing that I was a part of my community after all, and how it shaped my views and ideas. Guess, it didn't turn out well..
Thanks for the review though.
