Soar higher than clouds, but never forget your nest !

It was a rainy afternoon of mid August. The whole sky was covered by dark grey clouds. It had been raining morning. Broad clean roads of Islamabad were all wet and slippery. Despite the excellent sewerage system in the city, rain water was standing on many roads. My cousin was driving car with utmost caution, as the heavily pouring rain had reduced the visibility to merely forty meters. I was sitting quiet in the front seat, gazing outside the window pane at the magnificent Margalla hills. The music player in the car blasted out “smooth criminal” at painfully high volume. I wondered if I would be able to qualify the interview. What if the college rejects my admission in FSC? Where shall I go then? I questioned it to myself. After that we reached to college, I started seeing the building of College. It was a master piece of artistic skill. The college building was a finest merger of Islamic architecture with traditional British designs. The lush green hills surrounded the Western side of the building in a semi-circular pattern. I along with my cousin, proceeded towards the front wooden door of the main building which stood high above our heads. A neatly dressed college prefect hailed us at the main door with a broad and fake smile on his face. He pointed in the direction of corridors with a swift wave of his hand, and led us to the waiting room. About ten to twelve boys and girls were already waiting there for their turn. All of them wore a glum look on their faces, as if they were there to attend the funeral. “Hello” I shouted cheerfully, as I took my seat just besides the door. Hardly one or two of them responded with “Hi” in a boring tone. Most of them were using their mobile phones. I saw a girl who was reciting something in a suppressed voice. The atmosphere of the waiting room made me more nervous.

         I kept on waiting for my turn, while eating my own nails. After sometime someone called “Ahtisham?” I replied “Yes Sir” That guy replied, “Please proceed to the auditorium. That’s on your left.” I entered the auditorium, where a six member penal of interviewees formally welcomed me. This old man with a flat hat on his head told me to take the seat. As soon as I seated, I was asked to introduce myself. I started introducing myself in artificial English accent that was not very well articulated. All of them were staring at me in a different way. I had no doubt, why they looked at me this way. They stared asking me several question. At some point in the interview, young lady who sat on my right hand side, asked me to speak in Urdu. Without any hesitation, I did so. While answering a question, I wrongly pronounced a word of Urdu. It was “ghalat” (wrong) which I pronounced as “ghalt”. The lady said, “Look son, it is such a pity that we let die which must be preserved. Our integrity is bound to our identity, and our identity is bound to our language” “Sorry ma’am, I didn’t catch you” I said. The lady’s comment had left me bewildered. “Dear, it was pleasant to hear your English, and you do sound like a native America speaker, but the fact that you do not do justice to your own language is sad. It’s such a shame that you cannot pronounce such a common word as “ghalat” correctly” She responded. “But ma’am it’s just one word.” I protested. She drew a long breath. “Surely it is, but it shows how much you are connected to your language and by extension your culture. It shows how much you love your language and how proud you are of your identity”. She said. I nodded my head in affirmation. “Remember! Soar higher than clouds, but never forget your nest. Value your language, and it will repay you” I felt embarrassed and enlightened at the same time. Despite low temperatures, I could feel sweat on my forehead. In short, I was recommended for the admission, but these ten minutes of my life left me with a valuable lesson.