It is weird. It is mesmerizing. No, it is mesmerizingly weird. It is mesmerizingly weird how the memories you have of the places you have been to, dwell in the depths of your mind coupled with the mental pictures of the associated people, the sense of a particular smell or the feeling of a particular emotion or may be the melody of a song. Like, when you try to remember the first time you went to the zoo, you see the mental image of your father holding your hand or that stench the lion’s den gave or that feeling of excitement and wonderment when you first laid eyes on that polar bear. A familiar background, a familiar face, a familiar smell; there you have it! A perfect memory.
Yes. I can sense one right now. I can feel my mouth watering as I see the excitement on Adeel Faisal’s face while he talks about Lahori food. I can hear the laughs as we talk ill of Pindi’s tasteless food while walking towards Incantre for our 11:00 am meal. I can smell the unburnt diesel in the exhaust of the truck as it passes us by. The sense of amazement is still fresh as I hear this quiet, bearded boy pouring his cauldron of knowledge in front of me. Every detail is embedded right here in my mind.
Wait! The scene is changing. I can hear the footsteps of Farrukh Sami as he walks beside me on the circular road. His long, unshaven face with shabby hair twists into a smile as he enthusiastically narrates his day’s story. I can almost sense the chills as a gust of cold, biting Pindi air makes my body shiver. I smell the paratha’s frying at Pace, making my mouth water. I can sense the feeling of relatability as we share our stories and then get emotional.
Again. It is Fouzan Abdullah. Fouzi, as his roommate would call him. I can see his short hair lying neatly on this forehead as I ask him to give me one sip of the cold drink he is sipping. The smell of anda-shami from Shah Gee’s shop fill my nostrils as I hear Fouzan’s unwelcomed words of rejection. The look on his face and laughs that lingers can be seen and heard as I snatch the bottle from his hand. The way he curses me makes me a little bit fonder of his simplicity.
A new scene is emerging. I can feel myself recovering from his sarcastic remark. Hafiz Hamza Basit, the real life Chandler Bing, with his gora-chitta face, Hafizon wali beard and new phone is what I see. I can still sense the feeling as I am taken aback to a find soft heart inside a hard shell. I can smell the gust of sandy air as I sit behind him on his 70. The weight of my luggage and that of a problem weighs me down as he tries to lift my spirits up. I can smell pakoray as he drops me at the bus terminal. I remember my goodbye to his tinted helmet.
Another? I can sense the smell of freshly cut grass mixed with the smell of rain over dirt, I see the bearded face of Hafiz Muhammad with spectacles as he joins me at the entrance of Iqbal Hostel to watch the rain brighten up the scene with several shades of green and blue. I can hear the clouds’ thunder as they rub against each other. I can taste the words as they escape my mouth to insult my friend and can hear the laughs that emerge afterwards, joining the sound of the rain splashing, creating the perfect symphony.
Changing once more. I can hear the sound of my pen scribbling on a sheet of white paper. My peripheral vision can see the big faced Muavia Ejaz Usmani sitting across me, on the opposite bench that resides in front of the department, eating his homemade paratha roll. I can smell omelette and wheat as he shares his newest business idea. I can feel the excitement and thrill as I pen it down and start discussing its feasibility. I can sense the disappointment as the idea unfolds itself. I can’t forget the laughs that erupt afterwards. I can still hear them.
Changing. The room whose door reads 30 is dark and hot. I can hear Muhammad Ahsan’s wrist watch ticking three in the morning as we both lay awake in our beds waiting for the power to be restored. I can smell the stench of my sweat, can hear the constant buzzing of the mosquitos and can sense the stupid feeling of comradeship as we try to kill the little shits one clap at a time. I can feel the sweat evaporating off my body as the fan finally starts rotating. I can feel my lips moving as I ask him to wake me up for breakfast as we doze off instantly.
Changing again. It is the damp, cold room at the end of the right corridor of the first floor. I can hear the snoring of a man sleeping on the bed beside the one on which I and Muhammad Waqas sit, desperately trying to comprehend the mysteries of CFD. I can feel the sleepiness in my eyes as he removes his spectacles to rub his. The can sense the coffee smell filling my nostrils as I take a sip to fight the sleep away. We both know we are doomed, but I can feel the will to pass.
Changing fast. I can feel my neck getting tired as I talk to a tall guy walking beside me. I can see Naveed Aziz Malik getting all worked up over the issue he wants to discuss. I can sense the feeling of pride and honor as I find myself in a trustworthy position for this tall, skinny guy. I can smell the fries that he offers me, as he can’t eat a whole plate in one sitting. I can’t sense the time flying past as we keep talking for hours. It moves so effing fast.
The scene changes for one last time. I can see Qasim Nazir with his thin structure and messy hair entering room number thirty, as I lie on the sick bed. I can smell the mess biryani that he has brought with him. I can feel the friendship as he asks about my health and offers to bring something for me to eat. His shoes make a tapping sound as he leaves after I thank him. I remember all the times we relied on him to pass those courses and he never disappointed.
It is weird. It is mesmerizing. No, it is mesmerizingly weird.
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