The "Hoop La" Heart Finally Beats

I’m not quite sure how to describe my current state of euphoria, or even if it is possible to describe such a state at all. I am not accustomed to euphoria as an honest emotion, unless I am fabricating it for the benefit of an audience.
But euphoria this is…

There is something to be said for the power of an acceptance letter, any acceptance letter I suppose, but especially a university acceptance letter. The multitudes of silent emotions that race within you in those five to six minutes span a ridiculous spectrum. There is the apprehension that comes with finding the innocuous envelope and seeing it much smaller than you would have hoped. The mingled mass of dread and desperate hope as you open it and the sheer, resounding breathlessness that collects in the stillness as you read the first sentence. An eternity skulks in the silent corners of those masquerading minutes.
It can make or break that moment, that day, that year, that you.

“Dear Ms Amir,
I am delighted to tell you that your application for admission to the University of Oxford as a graduate student has been successful…”

It is oddly discomfiting the sheer volume of insecurities a mere letter can expunge. It almost makes it seem as if all of your earlier apprehensions were somehow silly, almost trivialising everything you have been; been through or done to get here. It is an odd experience. Truly...

All of a sudden there is a validation to simply being ‘you’, that you realise perfectly you should not have needed but are overjoyed at having all the same.

Lahore is beginning to look pretty these days.

Traffic isn’t horrific, it is bustling.

The weather isn’t rank, it’s misty.

The people aren’t boors, they ‘just don’t know better’.

You are suddenly saintly in your handing out of unbridled forgiveness, to those that do, don’t and shouldn’t deserve it. Nothing matters now that you’ll finally be out to make your own way, be whoever you could now be. You are no longer dejected about not being able to share this with your family. You are no longer vindictive about wanting to rub it into their faces that you made it. You are not upset about the scores of people who couldn't possibly be happy for you, are blatantly jealous or are looking at you with their raised eyebrows and “You couldn’t ‘possibly be serious’, Oxford…You! Pffffft!” expressions.

You are singing, painting and running every day and have finally learned how to play ‘Suzanne’ on your guitar. You are no longer worried about your job being a resplendent exercise in the art of time suckage, because it is giving you time to write and you are... like a crazy, obsessed TV-movie version of compulsive author. You are reading like there is no tomorrow, theology, philosophy and for some reason a lot of CS Lewis and Tolkein again. You are picturing yourself sitting and sketching in the purple meadows of Magdalen College and you catch a peek of yourself at the Bodelian. You are hoping you still remember how to ride a bicycle. You are beginning to forget the face of the woman who – upon hearing that you were hoping to be able to continue your Masters in Women’s Studies with a PhD in Comparative Religions – said that girls should really not study so much to prevent them from ‘adjusting to life’.

You are finally losing weight out of sheer determination and have not had a ‘real’ coke in three days… this is the only dark cloud hanging over you. You are filling out visa forms and accommodation forms and scholarship forms and you are absolutely loving it, because it means that all of this is real and not just in your head. You are dreaming ridiculous dreams about applying for a job at Penguin Publishing’s or the BBC and are not stopping yourself from dreaming so. You are beginning to believe in big dreams. You are finally letting go of hopeless strains of ‘would be, could be, may be’ romances that danced around in your head but never happened because you were too scared to even smile in their direction.

You are making plans with a ‘real’ time frame and one that keeps getting narrower and you love that. You are wallowing in the nostalgic irony of how five years away from your father, your former self, your former corners and your former fears could have possibly brought you here. You are not sure if it is luck or hope, but don’t want to jinx it so you send a silent thanks to whatever helped you get here. You are buying balloons and almost daily narcissus posies from random street boys that give you an honest smile. You have taken to using ‘Hoop la’ at the end of almost every second sentence that comes out of your mouth. You have developed the ability to smile at select strangers, especially children in backseats looking out of the rear window shield.

You are buying Green Tea shampoo’s, Crest toothpaste and tangerine Body gels and have forgotten to purchase the toilet paper and cotton swabs on your grocery list. You spent almost RS 400 at the Al Fatah candy counter yesterday on a composite of skittles, crazy roll-up bubble gum and marshmallows.

You are dancing every evening in your room at 3 AM for No reason,
for Every reason,
for Any reason.

You are jumping out of your skin, bubbling out of your mind, skating on sunshine and walking on air.

It can’t possibly last long.