SMOKE

Abbu leans against the wrought iron bars of the veranda and pensively smokes an imported cigarette. The deep pinkish orange glow of the approaching sunset hugs his brown skin, etching with dark hues the lines and creases sketched onto his tired face. The dark shadows under his eyes haunt his cheeks. The wispy tuft of thinning black hair on his head sways in the gentle winter breeze. The remnants of his once muscular physique shows through in the still somewhat taut muscles in his arms and shoulders that are visible in the white sando genji he wears above a flimsy lungi.
I stand there a little lateral distance from him, where the pungent odor of the smoke is masked by the smell of the winter cold. I inhale the chill into my lungs hungrily. And I stare out the veranda. But I don't notice the cityscape; instead I peer at Abbu through the corner of my eyes. He seems strong and lonely at the same time and again, not so. I see the indomitable fire in his aging eyes, and the passion and loss in the fingers with which he holds the cigarette to his mouth.

I look away at the rust crusted iron bars now. I am so lost. So hopelessly helpless. It's not that my life is full of hardship and pain and catastrophes. It is good, with a balanced sprinkling of happiness and despair. But, recently that is what kills me. The averageness of it all. Average me. Average life. Average past. Average present. Doomed to an average future. Always just average.
I sneak a glance at my father again. He is a brilliant man, one of the best in his field. He is a battle worn veteran, who has weathered all the pebbles, rocks and meteors fate has thrown at him and come out victorious. But, has he though? I don't know.
I watch the sunset now. An enormous building blocks my view, but I see the light fading and listen to crows croaking ever more loudly and a small piece of sky peeping out from the left shows me swatches of nightfall. I sigh, silently. The last few months have been a free fall. What some would call 'coming of age' has ripped apart my wings, the ones I had built feather by feather with my dreams. Now, I can no longer fly and reality looms at the end of my fall. And, I am scared. I used to think I had real potential. That I was meant for something great, that I was someone who would be remembered. Now that I am stripped of my wings, reality shoves a mirror in my face. I can see myself as the pathetic creature that I am, feeding on flirting, gossiping, procrastinating, beautification and television. Worst of all, I see the snide snicker of my personal shadow. She tells me that even now that I know what I am, I cannot and will not do anything to change it. Why? Because, I believe I can achieve something just by wanting to, even though I am almost perennially proved otherwise.
I am truly terrified. Terrified because I seem to have accepted I cannot amount to anything extraordinary and become comfortable in this average existence.
I turn towards Abbu again, pleading with my eyes. This time he finally looks back at me. For an electric second, and a virtual eternity he locks my gaze in his rock solid stare. I see the fire burning in his eyes. And, I see my fire reflected in his. I think he is also pleased with what he discovers about my soul, because he gives me a smile, an almost indiscernible one, but definitely there.
I smile too. Because, I am no longer shrouded with self deception and I am free of my own delusions. I know exactly what I have to do and I know I don't have the strength to do it. But, I will never ever give up trying. I will find that strength, maybe not today, but someday definitely. I have to believe that I can, or else I never will. Maybe I am meant for something, maybe I am meant for nothing. Perhaps, believing I can be extraordinary is another self deception. But this time I know the difference between “believing I'm extraordinary” and “I can be extraordinary”. This time, I know I will keep on fighting against average. Perhaps, it is foolish, but this is my war.
Abbu blows out a last puff of smoke before crushing his cigarette against the wall. I watch the smoke swirl; forming deforming and reforming infinite shapes and patterns. The smoke is almost translucent, existent and nonexistent equally. It blows out with the breeze into oblivion…

Maliyat Noor is an 11th grade student at Sir John Wilson School, Dhaka.