To love a bookworm- A letter for him

My dearest friend,

To love a bookworm is a romance unlike any other. She may be 17 or 68 but she remains the girl who just bought her first novel and feels that same rush of delight when she buys a new book.

 First of all, you must be patient with her silence when her lips hint at a smile. Her thoughts have become lines of poetry that are entwined with thoughts of you. At least they are... Sometimes.

 She might scribble them in the margins of a notebook but to read them to you would render her shy and gauche. But her mind does compose poems for you. She does wonder about practical things like shoes and the straightness of her fringe. Walk along the shelves as she hunts for a new treasure , hold her hand or the books she considers.

 Miracle if you get to choose a book for her- never mention the book again. She will tell you how you just have to read it the moment she closes it. She will not beg but heed her wisdom. Until then, she is likely to have a stock of books that are either read as soon she walks out the shop or she will let it lie until it calls her name out. But mention it and you awake a dark beast of guilt for not reading the book you picked out for her. And it will taint the reading of the current book in her hands for a chapter or three.

You must remember that you are a romantic hero of sorts in her mind. Since she was a little girl she wondered about you before you knew her. She created a mosaic of all the "perfect " men. But one hopes she realised you are not going to fit that muddle of Darcy and Heathcliff and Marius.... But she sees all the little glimmers of all her great literary loves in your smile. You might be practical or sporty or you may read but not the way she does. But she knows that you cannot be expected to live up to her ideal and instead you begin to define the idea of love that she has. Romance her in the way she pines to be romanced- to be courted and written letters (a thoughtful email will suffice, dear boy). She may have a secret love of umbrellas(Because Jo in Little Women found herself confessing love under one) or she might run her hand along brick walls to chance upon Diagon Alley. These quirks may be secret or she will tell you. Don't ridicule her little dreams that she builds on clouds of fancy.

Her moods may be strange. After all, Mr Rochester broke poor Jane's heart and left your beloved inconsolable for a week when she put the book down and refused to go any further until she felt calm again. Her tears may fall while reading The Notebook and it is the cruelest deed to laugh at her. You don't understand how deeply she feels for Noah in that moment. The next time she has a book she may burst into laughter and feel no shame in rocking in her chair as she tries to explain the joke to you. (Nod and try to see the humour). 

She will have ebooks, old books, new books, bits the dog chewed books. She may have all those or just one type. They are her family and she will likely hold them dear for as long as she lives. Enid and Roald will stay, even if you don't. There is a list of books she wants to keep for her children and a list she will ban from her house . She will scrunch her face up in dark anger if you or anyone suggests she gives her old books away. Because what if she has the urge to reread all the Anne of Green Gables books (which should be read every 4 years or so... Just in case) and she could not find them? Exactly.

She will have a mind that always craves a story and a heart that yearns for the kind of love she thinks doesn't happen in this century anymore. Surprise her and read a book(or try). Her eyes will sparkle like the heart of the mountain and you will be the one to rule over her heart. 

She will never say it - But try to love her as much as she loves you and her books.

Kind regards.

Here in Paradise

We aren't always going to be completely happy with the way things are. Even if we don't listen to the little voice in our head (or voices in my case), there's a dull ache that lingers. Keeping you up at night, recounting every insignificant detail of the past few years.Do you wonder about it too? Do you worry that in a few years you will regret the choices(or lack thereof) you have made?

 Because I do. 

I tend to label anything out of my comfort zone as Life Experience. That no matter how tedious or uncomfortable it feels- you find a way to grow out of it. In retrospect this helped me find meaning in daunting tasks. University has forced me to label many things LE. But it has also made the ache grow into a bruise that smarts black and blue.I have grown in a way that would not be possible back home because I was comfortable there. Out here, the weeds take root in your soils and you must stretch for the sun. Climb higher than the rest or else... Right?

"What if?" looms like the rain swollen clouds that carpet the skies and uncertainty splashes my boots as I venture out in the storm. And I can't answer that question because I really don't know. When torn between a passion and practicality, I know there is a dilemma-Be happy but lie among the weeds or be tall and have no fragrance in your bloom? There is no pity here in paradise. 

I am young and life is still new. Afraid the porcelain soul inside might shatter and be worthless. These thoughts weave into my mind and sharpen their blades among my dreams.

Its fast paced, loud and ruthless here. You run because there is no other option. You keep going because the golden gates lie open at the top of the mountain but everyone wants to get there. Rushing at once, pushing you in hopes you fall. And as much as I've gotten to know myself better I can't shake that dull ache.  I can't escape from my irrational fear of regret. A fear that I'm racing up the wrong path or that I will burn under the sun I reach for so desperately. 

No matter how fast I run, it isn't enough.  I can't differentiate between ambition and pride anymore but one of them spurs me on. "Prove them wrong" it whispers. "But why?" I ask. 

"This is the real highwire and the falling is a very real possibility. But it isn't the only one. You choose"

Train tracks

I took a break from most things for the past month. It wasn't a tough month but I could feel my soul dragging it's feet as I hurried to Platform A to catch the 7am train.

It gets to my destination too fast. There isn't time left to just think. No time left to observe and collect the frayed ends of my heart and tuck them neatly away. The past 5 years I spent countless hours in transit. Rising with the sun and watching the waves gently toss in the morning breeze. An hour there and back, to just listen. To worry, to smile, to laugh or to cry.

There are no more shades of sky-mirroring blue left in my commutes. Instead the highlight is a hill covered in purple wild flowers that fade as each day passes. This world of responsibility and of law lectures and meeting new people is trying. The familiar faces of friends who have also ventured to this dry place bring me joy. In them, I find myself relaxed and unguarded.

I find myself walking streets I have never seen before. Strange as I would never venture out this way before. I do not know these roads. I used to be able to close my eyes and even after a long time, I'd know where we were on the road. Your bones know every turn and bump once you've been doing something all your life. But here my compass spins aimlessly.

My knees ache from this new need to walk around and my calves tighten when I lay in slumber. The hours are too short to matter and the waking rays of dawn arrive earlier than expected.

There are storms here that shout and rattle the window frames. The days are an undecided mixture of fat raindrops and piercing heat. I feel like an alien.

This world of academics and crowds where you are just a number and timetables of unknown symbols confuse me. But I do love it.

I have tried to find joy in the little things, as I did before. Joy in the wealth of knowledge, laughter in friends(old and new) and even though the route will never be the same- I will enjoy the journey.

Hear our joyful voices ring: The last page

My matric year started during an assembly where we were voted in as executive members and it ended in a flurry of newspapers in a way out garage at 1am this morning. And through the lessons where it was just too boring to stay awake to the impromptu dance parties in our cozy exec room, I found a happiness I would not trade for the world. Finally I am at the last page of this book.

7 distinctions is what the paper says next to my name. My parents cried. My father held me and wept in joy. It hasn't hit me yet but when it does I'm sure I will cry too. My friends are all making me so so proud. Through the late nights of complaining to the early morning jokes, we stuck to it. It's at this point I realise I came out of high school with a family. It was never just school for me. 

It was a home to me. Those cool brick walls that soothed my aching wrists between rushed paragraphs in the History exam,housed us for 5years. I walked into those gates with a new, too-big blazer and walked out for the last time with tears and a blazer that had seen many days. I knew one person on my first day at school. That was it. 

Now I have countless sisters.

Thank you Northlands Girls High for being MY high school. For being the place I told everyone to send their child because it was just THAT good. For the teachers who did more than they actually needed to, who were always there to listen, laugh and give us that push we needed. For the mentorship it provided to teach us to be better leaders, better people. For the friends I've made. I found my voice while wandering those crowded hallways with my friends and I found my soul lingering in the hugs as we said good morning in Registration. Change is inevitable and it is time to say goodbye to my days there. 

I wept when we had our last official day. I cried like someone had died and I would never see them again. I wept because it felt like yesterday when I first sang our School Song in the hall. The cocoon stage was almost over at that point. 

Tomorrow we are officially moving. So it's a week of change but that's ok. The winds will blow you in many directions but I have a feeling that the roots I've laid down will remain hardy for a long time. The past five years have shaped me. I don't know what lies ahead but I will always be grateful that so far, it's been one heck of a trip. So thank you to everyone who has been part of it who reaffirmed my faith in God everyday with your kindness, lessons of humility and love that kept me motivated throughout this year. 

Twenty Thirteen

When I was 9, I worked out that when I turned 18 it would be 2013. When I was 13, I looked forward to it because it would mark the end of school and essentially my teenage years. Perhaps I will define my youth by this year. It would be the year I met myself properly and I liked who I saw. There was (and is) a lot of hype surrounding the Matric exams and now results are pending for those of us who did NSC exams. But if there's something I learned this year, it was that my problems are tiny in the grand scheme of things. Whatever it is will pass and it won't define you. The worries at the beginning of last year seem trivial (if I can remember them).

2013 was the year I changed it up, I worked hard for myself and it made all the difference. The results that come out, will be for me. Its not about what "The People" will say - They didn't put the work in, they didn't feel the strained eyes and sore wrists that we had while studying. My parents were especially understanding during Finals though. They get that you have to work for yourself and not for other people. I went to a new church and I've learned so muchfrom the lessons of how  ordinary things can have hints of something divine. I've seen how ordinary people can do extraordinary acts of goodwill and kindness just to help their fellow man. 

I think that's what showed me that I've changed. I put my everything into this year and it was ok because it was for me. You had to be selfish and take time for yourself too.I encountered some amazing people this year. The more people you meet, the more lessons you learn. From real life to the (mostly) wonderful people of Twitter, I  learned Life Lessons:

1) You can be the most awarded and brilliant person but that people will love you and respect you for your humility. Its that attitude that can be your crowning glory because it just highlights your successes without you having to boast them.

2) Its ok to break down in a crowded room and say "I'm sorry" to the people who matter. Because they will cry with you and echo your raw, tearful feelings. You show your strength of character when you can be vulnerable and admit to being wrong.

3) You will fall. And that's ok sometimes. You will fall so hard that everything seems impossible. The trick is to forget your fears and start climbing again.

4) Everything is Life Experience. Good, bad or just plain weird. You learn from everything and pray that you grow from it.

5) Life is short so you don't have to make your dresses shorter to fit in. Be yourself regardless of what's fashionable because we can all see your tweets from 2012. And you were totally a Belieber, babes.

6) At the end of the day, you have to wash your own undies. No one else should be forced to sort out your private stuff.

So in preparation for the New Year's barrage of messages of goodwill and the slight fear that looms with the unknown future, be thankful for this year. I am.

For the friends I've made while learning Afrikaans poems, for the Tweeters who made #SuesMatricDance a thing, for all the times my ribs hurt because I laughed too hard during History. For the nerves before a speech during Best Speakers and the joy of saying hello to everyone in the Morning Registration. For the English lessons on poetry and life.  I'm so grateful for all that I have and all that I've learned. Thank you for making 2013 beautiful.

And thank you to my readers who have been so kind to take time out for my little blog.

Happy New Year !(albeit a bit late)

Tomorrow the results of the Matric exams are released. Nothing has prepared me for the nerves that have sprung up (since I stayed relatively calm all year, this stress is a foreign feeling). There will be no sleep for me tonight or my mother who is a ball of nerves. I'm hoping I can write a guide to surviving Matric Exams and Results but there's no telling what could happen if I don't survive myself. Good luck Class of 2013. And thank you to the people who made my matric year (and school experience) Amazing! 

The Weeping Widows: An essay

( The following is adapted from an essay I wrote during Trial exams for English Paper 3. Since I have no word limit or time restrictions now, I had some fun rewriting this piece and thinking about the story I tried to get into three pages of writing. I hope you enjoy it)

The gunshot thundered from across the lake at daybreak. A sleepy sun rose and began to awaken all those that sang among the crystal dew- she did not sing with the birds but she was awake all the same. It was the girl this time, Old Sarah knew it would be the last of the rebels to be killed like this. They wanted to make a point first. They would hang the rest in the capital for the nation to see.The old woman sighed as her bones creaked into movement like dry branches in the wind, she had lived too long. Instead she yearned for a final rest while the youth were slain. She yearned for the clouds to gather and wash the dried blood off the girl's body. She cursed the sun for shining on a day as wretched as this.

The widows lived simply in the house by the lake. It belonged to Old Sarah who took them in if they had nowhere to go, if they had no kind relation to bear their sorrows with them. She had been a widow for more years than some had been alive. It kept them safe when the war began, the outsiders were superstitious - no harm fell on them for fear of divine retribution. 

There was no time for tears in this life, Old Sarah believed this through sunshine and through rain. But she shed them every time the gunshots boomed. As the day began the house filled with the sound of dishes clinking and bristles sweeping  away the dust that settled at night. It was like this every morning, all the widows cleaning and humming as they worked. On this morning there were no songs on their lips and no words that expressed their wounded hearts. 

The youngest one, wept while she peeled potatoes, her swollen belly pulled the cotton taut and caught the teardrops that fell. Her husband was among the first to be executed after the rebels were captured. So she came to the whitewashed house with the creaking doors, mourning as her fatherless child that grew month after month. Blameless child who was due to enter an unforgiving world soon. She had known the dead girl well. Everyone knew the girl. She had planned on studying teaching in the city nearby. Destined to be the pride of their valley one day. But that dream was no more.

The girl had been too young to die. 

The blush of womanhood was drained from her cheeks when she joined the rebels. The soft lines of her frame hidden in fatigues. A wedding veil for a helmet. Necklaces for the noose. The girl swapped all of those for the colours of freedom. Now she would return to the soil with hardened limbs and a face that would never see the wrinkles of age settle upon it. Old Sarah knew that this would be the turning point. The last drop that caused the floodgates to break open and unleash a flood. She knew it would happen when the rains came again. Or at least, she hoped that it would. 

It was midday when the mourners walked past, dragging their feet on the parched ground while singing sober hymns of a better life beyond the grave. Dust rose filled the air with a reddish haze that settled on their clothes and exhausted faces.They were tired of the war and of the outsiders who ruled the countryside. The girl's death would stir the hearts of men, perhaps. Perhaps they would cast out the foreigners who did this, who claimed to rule this valley.Many holy buildings that became defiled by these men were symbols of how far the oppression had come. The weekly prayers took place by the lake now, under the willow trees where God could see them worship beneath His shelters. But this did not alter their circumstance, they would need more than miracles.

It had been ten years of this existence: war and men of war who took, from the young women, what had been saved for the marriage bed. A decade of widows and widow makers. This is what war was in this place.Fields of green became dry battlefields watered with blood.The rebels were young and full of courage alas their rebellion did not last for more than a year before they were captured and sentenced to death. Old Sarah waited for the rain. She waited for war to end. It needed to end before she returned to the soil.

Night began to creep into the valley when the waters broke. Old Sarah chuckled as she looked up to the heavens, she had prayed for a new chapter of their lives that washed away the sadness of their past. But she did not expect this kind of flood to come so soon. Old Sarah hobbled to the room where the sounds of labour could be heard and the cries of an already fatherless child pierced the cool night air.

On Mandela and why I'm grateful to him

I know that I will always remember that I was buffing my nails and watching a TV show about gypsy weddings that night. Bored and a bit tired because we had a late flight back to Durban from Johannesburg, it was pretty quiet when my sister said to put the news on immediately. 

After months of not knowing what would happen and worrying about his health as a nation, Nelson Mandela had died. And suddenly, it was like a chunk of what defined our cultural identity passed from everyday news into the history books. I don't normally cry when people die but suddenly I felt tears stream down my face. 

I was born in 1995, a year and a chunk into democracy. I grew up free. I can't recall when I first heard about Apartheid because it was always just something you knew about as a kid (at least in our household). I enjoyed History most of all at school because I gained a deep appreciation for South Africa's journey from the first settlers until now. The syllabus for Matric was centered around black leaders like Martin Luther King Jnr, Steve Biko ,Nelson Mandela and the role he played in the road to democracy.(Cuba featured too but I didn't choose it because the appeal wasn't there for me). Many of my friends commented that our entire Road to Democracy essay came out in the TV shows. It was history learned and now we watched the screens as history was made.

I'm not going to write about Tata Madiba's life because its full of remarkable actions and besides, you can watch and read things that explore his role in the Struggle. They're wonderful and I ended up crying during most of them. But I can write about how grateful I am to him. 

I owe a lot to those who fought and died so that people of all colours could have opportunities and not be oppressed based on the level of melanin in their skin. I'm grateful that an Indian girl could have a good education and be friends with people of all walks of life. I'm grateful that my best friends could be Asian, Indian, Black, Coloured and White( I can't imagine life without the rainbow troupe I can call my friends). I'm thankful that I live in a country where I can go to a church, temple, mosque or synagogue and not be persecuted over my religion of choice. Grateful that I have friends who are gay, bisexual and straight and still know that they'll be able to marry who they choose to in this beautiful land. In many countries, people are not afforded that. 

You only begin to learn about the world when you meet the different kinds of people who live in it. After 27 years in prison, he came out and forgave those who oppressed him. He wasn't a saint but he was pretty close. He was a leader who respected every person he came into contact with. Not many leaders can profess to that level of humility. 

The world mourns. We weep as a nation but we sing too. To celebrate the man who changed the course of history. Our history. To celebrate a long life that had 27 years where he was behind bars and labelled a terrorist. He became a great leader a mere 4 years after his release.

Pray tell, people who who spout this fact vehemently( Namely the blonde girl in my Maths Lit class who, a few months ago, said he was a terrorist so why did the entire country have to celebrate his life on Mandela Day. Yeah you who sat in the back row and barely paid attention to the lesson and had no respect for the teacher. Open your mind)-  where have you seen a terrorist become a global icon for peace before? Terrorists are not empathetic, charitable people. Maybe read into why the Umkhonto We Sizwe was formed? Read about the Sharpeville Massacre. Then we can talk. 

 Nelson Mandela gave South Africans a reason to be filled with pride, to feel a sense of deep love for this land swell up inside of us when we sing the National Anthem. You can go anywhere in the world and people understand his significance. He dedicated his life to ensuring his dream of a better South Africa was seen through. 

So I thank you Madiba, for all the sacrifices you made so people like me could get an education and strive to fulfill our dreams. I'm grateful that in the upcoming elections, I'll be able to vote. I certainly will because you fought for that. 

Rest in peace Tata

(1918-2013)