A Letter to My Younger Self

Time will never be generous enough to grant a meeting with you, nor would a multiverse be expansive enough to allow me to embrace you. Years have slipped with almost a blink, and you are in your last teenage year. Hair is almost twice; you have embraced your roughly coiled hair, and you have two younger siblings. You still read, write, and — of course — cry. 

No Hogwarts letter came, and there is almost no door which can take you to a world of wands, fairies and magic. And before you even wonder (as you would do, one hundred per cent), no prince came, and your mother is not evil. Turns out, she is a human too, trying to make sense of the world around her. Do you still play with Barbie dolls? If yes, please pick a favourite one; I almost have no memory of them. Things have changed. Not entirely but partially. You are in Lahore. Yes, it is that magical, but no city has the power to consume what you feel or go through. Life is tough. I’m not tough, but it requires effort to detangle its meaning, and on the subject of meaning, you still think about your purpose in life, and NO, you still don’t understand the point of anything. You still count stars, but now you look at them with glasses because you are almost blind. Not very cool, though. Although, does your neck not hurt with all the star-staring and story-making? 

You have almost lost your ability to find characters in clouds, marble tiles, and bedsheets. You still count the boxes on the ceiling before sleeping, and you still can’t paint or draw. Your passion for love, books, and a big, big miraculous life is still present, and I try to hold onto it as much as I can, but I miss you. I have almost no memories of you, but I know that you are a precious child; at least, that’s what your heart tells me. You still find it hard to manage friendships, and you still can’t stop other people outshining you. Your best friend will soon move out of Pakistan, and you will never meet her, but that’s going to be fine too. 

Basma, don’t be so hard on yourself, and do not let others affect you so easily. You will figure out almost everything; you will learn how to cook, drive a car, speak publicly, and put your words wisely. But please, do not be afraid. Being scared will do nothing, only drift you apart from what you want to achieve. You will meet beautiful human beings, and you will visit places. You will even realise that people mispronouncing your name is acceptable, and there are other Basmas too. 

I am quite proud of you, and I always will be. The memories I have of you depict how loving a child you are and how human nature never stops fascinating you. Sooner or later, you will find chances to speak, trust me with this one, and take them. Also, can you please save that big Barbie-themed pencil case Baba got you? He still loves you very much and calls you with a very special nickname. Mama talks with you a lot, and your younger siblings call you ‘aapi’. 

You have miles to go before you sleep. 

Carpe Diem. I will tell you what that means, but then what’s the point of growing? 

(And eat as many as chocolates you want; you will never gain weight.)

All my love,

Your Future Self