That day at my college was like any other usual day, but the only difference was that, because of the many events happening on campus, our professors had become quite busy. To make up for our classes, we were instructed to work on our research thesis and report our day’s work to our Guide, otherwise we wouldn’t be granted attendance for the day. Following my classmates, I, too, went down from the fourth floor to the first floor with the status of my thesis on my laptop to meet my Guide. One distinct feature of our campus was that, unlike the other floors, the first floor alone was exceptionally bright and impressive. Everywhere you looked, there were shining glass railings and ceilings, along with posters, notices, and countless rules displayed on the walls about college updates though they always seemed to go straight over my head. The faculty and professors had glass-walled cabins, while the ceiling above had bright white lights, and for seating, there were elegant yellow and blue sofas. This was also because the director, along with high-ranking university officials, usually sat there to carry out their daily affairs. Since it was still going to take quite some time for my turn to come up according to the roll number sequence, I sat on one of those sofas to wait, right in front of my Guide’s cabin door. Suddenly, my eyes fell upon the nameplate fixed on the door. It read: Dr. Yasrib Qurishi, Area Head of Clinical Diagnosis And Sciences. My eyes lifted towards the name, and almost instantly lowered again in respect. I couldn’t help but wonder how many difficulties ma’am must have faced to reach this position and what struggles she would have endured in dealing with the hidden pitfalls of society. Truly, only ma’am herself would know the real value of that nameplate. For me, it was just a feeling of deep respect. Honestly, had it been a man’s name written there, I wouldn’t have been as moved. Before anyone ties me down with the charge of gender inequality, let me clarify this was because in my own life, I had been a firsthand witness to how a woman lost everything to reach a position of prominence. It wasn’t just our work that ma’am had to deal with; professors and faculty members from other departments of the university were also going in and out of her cabin. Some carried reports on their laptops, while others had notepads and pens in hand, all coming to seek guidance: what must be done here, what must be decided there. At that moment, I realised my scheduled turn would probably be delayed even further, as ma’am seemed extremely occupied. As I knew, ma'am she usually didn’t keep me waiting too long.

The issue was that, however, the place where I was seated, although right in front of her cabin door, still did not allow her to see me from inside. Not that waiting bothered me much; I was quietly absorbed in observing that scene when, all of a sudden, my eyes fell upon a girl wearing a black hoodie and a face mask, anxiously rubbing her fingers together. The way that girl carried herself, her appearance and her clothing, with her face covered suddenly reminded me of my friend Nimrah, my dearest companion, or rather, my only true friend. She too used to come to school dressed in the same way wearing a hoodie, with the hood pulled over her head and a face mask covering her face. The gusts of memory of Nimrah revived the old, dried blood of the wounds in my life, making them fresh once again.
How could I forget the first day at that new school when we had just recently moved from one city to another? My father worked in a government bank, and with his transfer came the need for us to migrate from one city to another as well. I was then in 12th grade, and due to the board exams, joining a new high school had already put a lot of mental pressure on me. One reason for migrating with my father was that we didn’t have a permanent home of our own. So wherever my father’s transfer took place, we were allotted some government quarters in the new city where we all lived together. On the very first day at my new school, in the very first class, the lecturer asked my name as soon as he entered. I found out he taught English, and unfortunately for me, he asked me to read a lesson aloud in front of the entire class. Now the issue was I had come from an Urdu medium background, and every word of this new textbook felt like a blow to my head. I tried my best to the core to read it, but because of my poor pronunciation and limited vocabulary, the whole class started laughing loudly, some even almost falling off their benches and chairs. A tear of salt water fell from my eye onto the very lesson in my notebook that I couldn’t read properly and then suddenly, a hand came and gently wiped my notebook page clean, then slowly, in a soft tone, started teaching me the correct pronunciation and vocabulary. It was a girl whose only visible feature was her dark eyes, wearing a white hoodie. Yes, that was Nimrah, that was my first meeting with her. Later on, Nimrah became a very good friend of mine. When I asked her about her appearance in later days, I found out it was due to a strange health condition that made her very prone to infections. Her immune system was suffering from a resistance disorder known as sepsis. Because of Nimrah’s unusual health condition, all the other children in the class kept their distance from her. Perhaps that was the reason she had no support or companion to rely on. It wasn’t long before this very fact brought our friendship even closer in a very short period of time.
School days passed, and Nimrah and I grew even closer in friendship. She helped me as much as she could with my studies, but the problem of my weak English remained. One day during the lunch break in class, Nimrah told me she had consulted her mother about tuition. She explained that the reason she was able to speak such fluent English today was solely because of her mother. I was very hesitant and it felt very abnormal that it would be strange to come to her house every day, and on top of that, her family might be disturbed. But Nimrah didn’t listen to me. She looked at me very seriously and said, "Who is there in my house except me and my mother?" Then she added, "At least meet my mother once. If you feel it’s a problem, then I will try to teach you English myself."
It was probably an October evening. Nimrah’s house was almost near the mountains of Zanskar. In the season of autumn a light dusting of snow on the mountain peaks was visible from very far from the main highway road As I finally reached the gate of her house, the sharp icy winds were numbing my face and fingers.
I knocked on Nimrah’s house gate, and from inside came a gentle female voice asking, "Who is it?"
I am Ruhez, Nimrah’s classmate.” Within a few moments, the gate opened, and standing before me was a woman of about in her 30’s, wearing a grey hijab and before I could say anything more, she invited me inside the house. In a few moments, I found myself seated in her living room. Nimrah often praises you, saying that you are a very good person. I am quite surprised, dear, that even knowing Nimrah’s condition, you have become her only and very good friend. Her mother said this while sitting in my living room. Within moments, Nimrah also came into the drawing room with her mother. The same day was the first time I saw Nimrah without her face mask. She was wearing a pink frock and truly looked like a fairy descended from the sky. That day, my surprises were far from over. My eyes fell on the certificates, achievements, and medals displayed on the wall and the cupboard to the side, all bearing Nimrah’s mother’s name. My eyes widened in astonishment when I learned that her mother was a very famous international conflict researcher. Her mother went to the kitchen to arrange the evening tea refreshments. I was left looking at Nimrah in astonishment. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s a long story I will tell you one day when I have the time,” Nimrah said, giving me a faint smile.
"Nimrah’s mother served halwa puri along with tea and some other delicious dishes. Truly, her mother made very tasty halwa puri. In the course of conversation, it was decided that every Sunday I would come to their house to take English and English grammar tuition from her mother."
Perhaps good times always seem to pass too quickly. Every Sunday, I would go to Nimrah’s house for tuition from her mother. Her mother always treated me with affection, and whenever her eyes met mine, a gentle smile appeared on her face. Behind that smile, there appeared a shadow of pain, an unspoken wound that showed itself no matter how hard she tried to hide it.
One such Sunday evening, I made the biggest mistake of my life with just a few careless words. I asked Nimrah, “Where does your father live? Why doesn’t he come home?”
If only I had been able to restrain my tongue… if only I had become silent before uttering those words. From both of Nimrah’s eyes, a fierce torrent of tears began to flow, soaking the edge of her dress. It was a relief, at least, that her mother wasn’t present at that moment to witness it. I tried, with my fingers, to wipe away the stream of tears running down her eyes, but it was a failed attempt. Perhaps that day, her tears carried too heavy a burden of sorrow to be stopped so easily.
Ruh… will you walk with me to that hill?” Nimrah asked, her words carried on broken, wounded breaths.
“Of course, why not. Let’s go,” I replied softly.
It was Nimrah’s mother who had first given me the name Ruh. One day, during a tuition class, she had mistakenly called out only the first half of my real name, Ruhez. From that moment onward, both mother and daughter affectionately called me Ruh, and the name stayed. And how could I ever forget that cold evening in the Zanskar mountains? In the evening it almost resembled the scene of a long, endless night. But then, that is the way winter evenings often are steeped in a darkness that arrives too soon, carrying with it a silence both haunting and beautiful.
“The one who discovered the deadliest poison in the world was perhaps unaware of this poison called love; otherwise, it wouldn't have demanded so much effort. Love is nothing but a poison that, like a pink venom, slowly seeps into the veins of the body. Then, with a single blame of unrequited love, even pure water tastes like the bitterest poison to that soul” (To Be Continued)

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