A while before starting this piece, I plunged into a large pool of finding writing material—the art of good writing suggested by Chuck Briggs, scribbling keywords online to get something worth about freelance writing, and on, and on. I ended up downloading a word document that was of little importance (I thought it was a full book, but as I flipped through the slides, it turned out to be the introduction on where to get one on a five percent discount). The internet I uses (The wifi connection is still limited—a problem with wifi and also the connectivity) is of third class. But don’t take me for that grade, I’m a nice guy. Okay, you already knew, that’s fair.

It was around 5’o clock in the morning, the alarm rang with the melancholic voice of Mishari Rashid reciting the Adhan. I shoved my hands around the pillow in dark, where is that phone? Where is it? Finally, it was in my hands. I felt it. God! That stuffed nose with red eyes, I’m more like an allergic patient who stands near as the janitors mop the dust in his nose. There is an activity, looking around for the Rhinosone (I miss this decongestant spray for hardly an hour), at last I grabbed it.

I love to get up that much early in the morning. It’s the time when the boys pelt cattle to the meadows; it is the time when I see the glint of light on broken glasses, it is the time when the chauffeurs peep to get the early risers and goods to their destinations; It is the time when there is no snail pace traffic—that you need to cram through the narrow gap; It’s time when the cats prowl the alleys in search of food—that may be squandered by the passers.

Above all, I love to get up on time and ready to go, because I can’t doodle my time laying in the bed at hostel; I have to take classes. Emboldened by this edifice, I do it daily, I get up early.

I had really that good morning today. The class, as Bilal Majeed always shoots text a night before, is at 9’o clock. I knew well. I’m free after the Fajar prayer, but a little drowsy. Why not sleep for an hour or so? It’s a good idea, what a genius. I never get such ideas in exams, or I’ll be sleeping through that small time. I don’t think trudging up the hill is as difficult as getting up early in the morning.

As I was relating this diverse knowledge, and thinking about why Christopher Langan had to retreat on the set of 1 VS 100, “I’ll take the money,” he shook the host’s hand and left with $ 250,000 in hands (I’m not sure if they were in hands, or he had to stuff them in a truck—it’s a huge sum, man), I was asleep. I got up again, when Kifayat called to honor the morning breakfast at Madina Market. “Umm..yeh.. I’ll be waiting at the gate,” that is what I mumbled.

And in the next minutes, I was ready to get pratha and a cup of tea at Madina Market. There was no time for a breakfast; but if we had really that, the entry in the classroom was late. And today is the first day, no one cares to get up to the front seats; we’re back benchers, man!

“May I come in sir?” I asked for permission. “No, stand out there for a while.” These are the words by Amjid Naseer Sir. I had to obey. After a few minutes, he nodded to come in and we lurched in with a jolly mood.

“There will be no second guess after I had my orders issued,” He said ferociously.

No, never! I recalled a possible post-arguing environment, I’ll never be late again, nor will I have that second thought. After all, it’s a semester system. “My grades need improvement,” seriously, I purged my quisling thought of “let the grades be the way it is,” after this summer semester for extra classes.

I barely remember that boring lecture; I never had a charming lecture since my enrollment at UET. It was a class that left ants in my pants; it was boring and long. No matter, how long things last, they finally end. There was another class. One teacher who won’t let you introduce yourself for a couple of minutes, the other will make an introduction a lot longer than a whole lecture.

UET employs such diverse-natured teachers. Shahid Ullah, a PHD in Engineering from Germany, giggles at every point when we are quite. He makes fun of that low speed ceiling fan. His voice is low. He is a lanky, young man with sideburns just touching the tragus. And he wants us to introduce by a very new, never before practiced way. He calls us one by one to the lecture board to write our good name with residence. And the funny part: he has a DSLR carefully wrapped in a newly bought (the labels were in place and not removed) bag. He hands it over to Bilal Majeed to take a photo of everyone who comes up to the board. Here is Qaiser, Nouman, Fida, Taseer (myself), and everyone else who writes his credentials, turns back, and poses for a photo with smiling face. It was more like the convicts who are posed with a specific number and information in hands. These convicts are confused, terrified, and humiliated; we are happy, normal, and smiling with every flick of the camera.

After the posing ceremony, we have to get back to the lectures slides that he once opened, but then closed to wade through this gruesome chore.

The hour hand strikes 2 pm. We are fed up enough to cram out of the class. I hardly made my way to the bed and lied till 5 pm. A respite of three hours in bed was enough. I played football in the evening and returned to dorm with fresh mind. It was a real first day spree.


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