Dedicated to Nausheen, who taught me the word.

The ear worm in my head as I thought the thoughts that I intended to write today was See You Again by Wiz Khalifa. It has been a long day. 36 years and counting.

How can we not talk about family when family’s all that we got?

As that lyric played, I felt a sudden, desperate tug. To light up a cigarette. It’s been nearly three years since I quit, but right now, I’d give anything for that blissful, nicotine-filled caress to quiet my insides. I know I’m just looking for a familiar ache… to distract me from a deeper withdrawal… the ache for family. A construct that has eluded me for the longest time.

One of the things I read recently was that each of us wrote a story for ourselves as children. Long before we could string two syllables together. Even longer before we learned to flex our etymological prowess. We constructed this tale. We filled it with characters. We gave it a beginning. A middle. And an end.

Once written, we remained ever so faithful to this story. We unwitting re-enacted this throughout our lives. No matter how painful it was. For one reason and one only – familiarity. The familiarity of knowing how it ends provided solace.

For me, that tale was one of being left behind. Of being un-chosen. Growing up, love was a reward. The dutiful son. The good student. The dependable one. The purposeful one. Not going to lie. It served me very well, for the longest time. Until the time I failed at being the perfect version of what I was expected to be and attempted to be who I wanted to. The punishment that was meted out in return was so grave that it killed something inside me.

I disappeared. For the longest time. Into the pages of someone else’s chapter. I served and made myself indispensable. But the catch to being utilitarian is that one day they outgrow their need for you. And when they do, you end up like a booster rocket. You burned all your fuel just to put them into orbit. Only to detach and fall into the dark. Alone.

I continued the chase. For family. The irony is that I always chased those who came from really strong ones. For whom the cost of being with me would not be insignificant. I somehow convinced myself that if I was chosen against herculean odds, then it would somehow make it more real. That walking away from me would be that much more difficult.

But people from strong families will never know the burden of being chosen.

This juxtaposition – of my wants & needs and the inevitable ending of my script rages on. I think the familiarity of the story was that it provided me solace… from hope. Hope had become a constant reminder to me that the higher I fly, the further I fall.

But this time, I let the flame light up again. To really believe. I saw the light flicker. I created a cove to protect it from the harsh wind. But I don’t know whether this has the capacity of going from a flickering light to a behemoth which will light up the world.

For the first time, I sit with the uncertainty. Of not knowing. The war rages on. Between believing and between the dissipation of hope. But I continue to sit with the light.

As I sat there, trying to keep the wind out, I heard the word for the first time – tavakkal. It reminded me of how the crystal merchant told Santiago – maktub. And I think both of them segued into each other. If it’s all written, then we just need to believe… that whatever happens will ultimately be okay.

Yet, that inkling of fear nags at the back of my throat. That this might all just end up in a requiem-for-a-dream esque fashion.

And still I believe

I don’t know whether to end that last sentence with a period or a question mark.