"If you want something, don't wish for it. Life is too short to wait." -Stephen Hines

Life had become a tape recording, and I, a robot designed to do the same thing every day following the same routine of boredom. Nothing was new, and I was in a rut, and yet I was flowing persistently like a calm river with everything.

Days passed in a blur — snuggling in bed all day or roaming uselessly around bathing in the beauty of the city. The fog, the greenery, and the air of calmness that enveloped it made me love it. I wasn't an anomaly here; the atmosphere was too friendly to let me think that. The nearby parks were always filled with children who played cricket or ate ice cream and women who jogged around in Salwar Kameez with p-caps and sneakers. I talked to them once, and I found nothing but sweetness in their behavior.

I used to dislike children, with their irritating noisiness, but now I enjoyed watching them play — they were happy, at least. They had mothers — mothers who were their shade from the warm sun and stormy rain. I envied those kids. I envied their smiling faces.

Because they have mothers, actual shelters...

It had been more than a month. I was living in my mother's house in Pakistan by myself, as she had- alone.

Maybe someday I'll die like her ...alone ...in that room ...in that kitchen ...or here on this bed...

I learned of Pakistan from a native girl who took chemistry with me in high school. Not even in my wildest nightmares had I thought I would ever come to live here.

I felt numb when I put my feet on this country's soil. It had been a twenty-hour flight from the U.S. to Pakistan - Pakistan, my mother's country.

A tiny smile crept onto my lips as I stared up at the sun, glancing down at me through the thick grey fog. I walked on the runway of the airport hastily as tears welled up in my eyes, wondering if that woman, whose identity I never knew, smiled at the sunrise as I did.

The fact that she was alive all that time, my blood and flesh, and I didn't even know her, made my heart clench tightly. I hissed in pain.

Stupid, stupid! Don't cry! Don't cry! I wiped my wet cheeks harshly, praying that nobody noticed me.

I didn't have to wait much longer as my blurry vision caught sight of a man holding a name tag with my name on it:

Musca Stuart.

I approached the tall, black-haired man with high cheekbones. Stubble and rimless glasses covered brown eyes. He introduced himself with the most charming smile I had ever seen on a man his age.

"Mubashir Ahsan," he said in his deep voice, but elaborated when I stared at him dumbfounded, "Your mother's cousin."

I nodded in response.

"You have your father's eyes," he smiled as he gazed into my silver-grey eyes.

Well, thank you for stating the obvious!

"My driver is coming with the car, chai peogi?" His words went over my head. "I mean chai-- would you like to have some tea?"

I shook my head. But he insisted and bought me a cup anyway.

"How was your flight?"

I nodded again, but I was not in the mood to talk. I brought the crystal chai cup towards my lips to take a small sip of the steaming tea.

"Are you okay?"

I jerked my hand, startled by his question, burning my lips in surprise. I shook my head immediately and then nodded, prompting him to smile.

The nerve of this man! Couldn't he just shut his mouth? Didn't he understand that I didn't want to talk?

"How is your dad? I mean...?" He cut himself off, noticing my clenched jaw.

At last, the Heavens had heard my plea, and after this, he stayed silent for the rest of the wait, not opening his mouth for anything, not even once.

When his driver arrived in his car, I got into the car and sunk into the leather seat. I closed my eyes gently and breathed slowly. Shortly after the car came to life, the car rumbled down the gravelly road as it started moving. I struggled to breathe as I watched the fields fly by as the car drove on.

I was going crazy with this deafening silence, but I didn't want to talk either. Why am I so unpredictable?

Hills surrounded the winding road with a thick fog obscuring their tops. This city reminded me of the time when Scarlet and I went on a camping trip to Madrid. The clean, broad roads and lush green trees along them refreshed my soul, but at the same time, the grey clouds covering the evening sky made my heart sink. If I were not in such a dour mood, the view would have fascinated me.

A pressure wrapped its grimy fingers around my chest, pinched into my heart, squeezing, squeezing stoutly. I struggled to think, struggled to breathe as we neared our destination. My destination. My mother's house.

After the long drive, we pulled up to my mother's house, located in a posh area. There were bungalows on both sides of the broad road, decorated with Neem and Palm trees in the middle.

My eyes swept up the little lawn of her house to my mother's bungalow, which seemed just enough for a person or two to live in. Following Uncle, I entered the living room, my eyes darting around, a faint light of hope igniting in my heart to find her. Instead, my eyes found mere ebony furniture, paintings hanging on the light peach walls, couches, a glass table placed in the center and lamp lightning in the corner . . . and then it was empty, empty from any living thing.

It was an empty house. It was her empty house, and it seemed even more vacant as I remembered that she used to live here. She was here, and then she wasn't. The salty substance began sneaking out from the corner of my eye. She was here the whole time – when I thought she was dead...

"When was the funeral?" My hollow voice rang in the half-lit living room.

"A couple of days ago. . ."

I pressed my lips together to push back the sob that threatened to leave my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut to stop the water that welled up in my eyes.

I voiced a thought that occurred to me, "Why is this house empty? Where is her family?"

"She lived alone . . . she used to live alone." He couldn't hide the pain in his voice.

Alone... left me and lived alone... "No family?"

"Yes . . . a nephew, some," he cleared his throat. "They live in other cities."

By his tone, I knew he was hiding something. But I let it go, looking around the lounge, touching her household items, things she had once felt. She had been here... sat on this very sofa ... a chill ran down my spine.

I couldn't believe Papa, and she had done that to me, to their daughter. When did they plan to tell me? Would they ever have told me? Was it not my right to meet my mom? The little hope that blossomed in my heart when I was coming here — that I could meet her and that maybe that this had been some kind of joke, that she might be alive and waiting there to surprise me — was crushed under the foot of reality.

I didn't realize I was sobbing until Mubashir Ahsan silently put his hand on my shoulder.

"Will you please . . . I need to be alone," I mumbled.

After a moment of deafening silence, he left respecting my wish, but not before leaving an envelope on the central table. "These . . . letters are from your mother."

What would be in these letters? Would I find a bunch of defensive excuses?

Surely she knew how to use her defense mechanism, and I knew even before opening them how nicely she would defend herself in those letters. I knew no matter how much I tried, and I would never be able to muster the courage to read those letters from my mother.

My dead mother.

☆☆☆

Mubashir Ahsan — Uncle Mubashir — occasionally stopped by. Sometimes, he would bring gifts and chocolates for me. His attempts to make me laugh were sweet, I couldn't help but see a lost lover of my mother in him, and his efforts to cheer me up were useless.

He had asked me to call him Uncle because it was some kind of rule to address an elder as uncle or auntie in Pakistan. Though it was weird, I didn't pay it much mind.

Uncle had attempted to insist upon hiring maids for me. I declined. I hated the idea of being surrounded by maids. The thought of having people following me and interrupting my privacy irked me. I did all my chores myself, from dishwashing to laundry. It was easier to kill time working.

In my father's mention, I didn't even have to move a hand and here, in Pakistan, doing laundry and ascending the stairs and putting clothes on wires on the terrace was a new experience for me. In the first few days, I was fretful and crying at every chance I got.

The coffee I brewed was tasteless and smelled like burned charcoal. I threw it away, each time I made it. It was only after a few weeks that I learned to make it better with practice and patience.

Rebelling against my father, running away from him, from my own country was easy - but living in a new country - alone - was not easy. Mostly because I was haunted by the depressing thoughts of my mother's death, my father's lies, all the things I couldn't have in my life, especially my mother's presence and happiness.

☆☆☆

Mubashir Uncle, on my behalf, had filled out an application form for a master's degree in business, without asking me. I was used to the ordering, and overprotective behavior of my father and I had rebelled against him in any way I could. But, with Uncle, it was awkward to say anything or rebel because I was not even close enough to him to say yes or no.

had finished my bachelor's in business management, and if this disaster hadn't happened in my life, I had been planning to do my MBA in America too. While I was not here to study, neither was I here to roam around. I was unaware of what I wanted in my life or where I was heading, so I quietly let Uncle Mubashir do as he pleased. I had accepted my destiny and had left it to unravel on its own. I would just wait and watch.

The time in between disappeared too quickly, and before I knew it, I stood on the university grounds, surrounded by stone buildings, to officially begin. The university stood tall, surrounded by undulating terrain, low hills and filled with green shrubs, marrying rustic attractiveness with unique modern architecture.

As I took in the large windows and the loud chattering of people around me, a stick-thin man stopped me and asked me something in Urdu. My confusion at the foreign language must have been written on my face. The man stopped a guy walking past us in a red shirt and said something to him.

The guy told me to go with the man to the president's office and moved forward in haste. Getting summoned to the president's office on the very first day was alarming.

"But why?"

The man didn't answer, which I supposed was because he didn't understand. I sighed deeply and followed him while wondering what in the world I could have possibly done wrong to have to meet the president.

We went through the crowded corridors and lawns filled with the noises of newcomers - who looked as stupid and as clueless as me - and the seniors who seemed very comfortable, joking around and laughing like hyenas about the newcomers.

I kept my head low, looking at my black sneakers as they moved on the marble floor. After passing from one building to another and climbing up the stairs, I stood in front of the president's office on the second floor. I knocked on the door, and when I entered the office, I was a little surprised but knew the reason for my summons immediately.

Inside the white-painted room was Uncle Mubashir sitting in his office chair, a charming smile adorning his face. In front of him were some papers, a glass of water and a silver laptop was placed on his clean office table.

Mubashir Ahsan, also the president, had called me because he had to lecture me on how my first aim should be to get the highest GPA in each semester. After all, I was the chancellor's niece, and then, it was about his reputation.

The only important thing I learned was: British English influenced Pakistani English. I was growing weary of his non-stop talking for over twenty

The sweet singing of a bird caught my attention from outside the window in the office, with white curtains pinned to the sides. A dark blue and green bird was perched on the windowsill. It is so beautiful.

I stared at it for a moment before it flew away, breaking my heart. I was so lost in thought that I didn't care about listening to what Uncle Mubashir was saying.

I stood up and darted to the window. Outside, the bird fluttered in the beautiful azure sky in pure ecstasy and independence. I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment.

"What happened, Musca?" Uncle Mubashir asked, concern evident in his voice.

I slowly opened my eyes, fixing them on the vast field, where the large branches of the trees danced in pleasure as the cold air collided with them.

I shook my head slowly and walked back to his desk. "May I go now?"

"Yes, but remember the rules. This is not L.A., Musca, this is Pakistan," he said in a severe tone. "I know you are responsible and pretty innocent, but I also know that you can turn into an annoying and naughty monster as well."

"Yeah, right."

"No smoking, no alcohol, no boyfriends." He looked earnest. "These things are forbidden for a Muslim, and this is a Muslim country."

"And I thought I would be free from overprotective people now," I muttered.

"And yes... remove that!"

"Remove what?" my eyebrows pulled together.

"That," he tapped the corner of his lips with his index finger, referring to the small hoop I sported in the corner of my lower lip piercing. I nodded meekly.

I'm not going to remove it!

"Are you comfortable in your house?"

I nodded at his sudden question — that he had asked me like a hundred times before. I was comfortable; it was my mother's house. It was beautiful and comfy. Knowing that she used to live there made me happy and sorrowful at the same time.

I took a deep breath, glancing at the clean office table to avoid his eyes.

Holding onto a glass of water, he smiled at me and took a small sip. "If you don't want to live alone, you could come to live with me or in the hostel with other girls," he suggested.

A smile made its way to my lips, touched by his genuine concern.

"No, I'm very, much comfortable. Thank you."

"Okay then, you're dismissed," he stated. He picked up his pen and started signing the paper in front of him.

I nodded curtly, more to myself than him. "Oh, thank you."

I speed-walked to the door, almost running like a prisoner who was freed after spending twenty years in jail.

"Musca, listen!" he called from behind. One hand on the door handle, I glanced at him over my shoulder. I wanted to run away from everyone I knew.

"There is going to be a speech competition. I want you to participate."

"But I. . ."

"Listen to me first," he cut me off. "It's a good opportunity for you to mingle with people. Get ready for that competition. You're doing it, and that's an order."

"Okay," I mumbled and left his office.

Later that day, I was sitting by myself on the lawn, regretting agreeing to Uncle Mubashir's speech competition. It was not like I had a choice.

I should've said no, or at least said no to the girl who met me and gave all the information I needed. But my uncle had said it with such authority that I didn't dare say no. Even though I had only recently met him, still, he was my elder; the respect I felt for him was too much to deny his order. I was not gonna back out. Because other than this competition, I had no purpose of living in Pakistan. I needed something to put my mind into. I was gonna prove that I was the best. I was not going to give up. I'd do it, and I would win.

I promised myself.