There is something so attractive about that smell. Non alcoholic perfume. A Holier than thou air. Greeting whoever you meet with a salaam. Men with beards. Sometimes skull caps. Even if they wore normal westerns, there is something about the way they wear them. There is something in the way everyone smiles.
I walk up the stairs to the Outlook office and I want to greet everyone with a Salaam and then I realise this is not Jamia. Here lecherous men from the pantry stare at you. Here there are no Fayyaz from Hygienic Cafe who aspires to be an actor and would give you free performances everytime you ask him for a cup of coffee. I go up panting and say a hii to my friends. Unlike back in Jamia, I don't want to pull out my hair at the sight of them, which is a good thing. We share chit chat about how PTI is behaving and about traffic. But I miss the fire. The difference in ideology. The raised eyebrows if I walk in wearing a tight T-shirt. The squabbles about Islamic scholars.
I want to fast. Its Ramazan. I know I can do it even if I am sitting in Outlook but its not the same. Everyone in office constantly hogs. I miss fasting together, as a community. I want to discuss about the Iftaar party and what to eat. I want to know that the person sitting next to me knows exactly when to do Iftaar. I want to have people I can do Iftaar with. And even though I have people whose place I can land up at for Iftaar, its just not the same.
At 6pm, all of us rush down to catch a bite at CCD or some Dhaba or the confectionery but I want to walk to Central Canteen for bread pakoda or to the Engineering Department for the good biryani. Back in office, we get constant cups of tea and these are real cups. But I like my 'dip tea' in paper cups that I can sit and drink under a tea listening to professors chat about things that I don't understand.
The boss walks in late in the evening. But he does not come in to teach. And I want to learn. I still want to learn. I want to ask ridiculous questions and have debates. I want to tell him what I think of the Dawah Mission or about West Asia. I want to crib about how difficult Arabic is. I want to listen to people discuss Urdu poetry. I want to hear them recite Faiz and Ghalib at the drop of a hat. I want them to tell me about Parveen Shakir and Qurratulain Haider. I want to hear people sob over the Partition and fight over Maulana Azad. But all I hear is the incessant sound of keys, mouses clicking away to the silence and the boss pronouncing my name with utter cold perfection, "Freya, you filed that story?" I like my name being mispronounced as 'Fariya' or 'Fareha' because even though they are horrible versions of my name, they were always said with affection.
The freezing AC of the office tells me I need to smell old, musty, books in squiggly Urdu. That I need to watch the rain from dusty balconies. That I need to watch men pray down below. That I need to go where I belong...
No, I never fit. And No, I never left.
