Who am I? by Hareem Farooq, First Year

Tuesday, April 12, 2016 KELS 5 Comments Category : ,

I am in the eyes of the mother who works limitless hours in the houses of strangers; doing dishes, 
wringing clothes and dusting mansions. A creased forehead or a frown is not acceptable, and a smile is something she cannot force. The house owner shouts out commands and her ego is stabbed. Sweat 
trickles down her forehead and her energy is drained. Everything vanishes from her being, but I remain. 

Who am I?

I am in the pacing footsteps of the child who runs on the street with a heavy bucket in one hand and a 
wiper in the other. His heart paces with the countdown and he runs to avail the ticking seconds. “May I?” He pleads. “Get away from my car you idiot,” he hears the reply, and then and there his confidence shatters. The moment the signal turns green, the lives of all others resume but his life pauses.  As the graying sky takes over, the limited time slips through his frail hands. The colours of his life feel faded, only I remain. 

Who am I?

I am in the gestures of the man beneath the cloak and the mask. Fingers are pointed towards him and 
only the faint words “Look, a clown,” reach his ears and pierce his self-respect. He puts smile on the 
faces of the young ones, but loses his own. He remembers how to make others laugh, but forgets the 
tactics for himself. Inside he feels empty, yet I remain. 

Who am I?

I am in the walking stick of the bearded man who clumsily stumbles towards the people in crowded 
bazaars. The load of the countless newspapers left to be sold does not burden him as much as the 
dependency of his family back home does. Dawn transforms to dusk and the only slice of bread he had is no longer there to satisfy his growling stomach. His devotion disappears, however, I remain. 

Who am I ?

I am in the hands of the mustached fellow that open and close doors tirelessly to let the crowd move 
smoothly. The tongue repeats the same salutations and the face wears the permanent grin. Muscles 
twitch to scowl, and the fake expression begins to lose its effect. The smell of the lavish food stimulates the taste buds, but the everlasting torture slays the lust. Desires die, nonetheless, I remain. 

Who am I?

I am hope; the hope behind every wiped tear, the hope behind every silenced shriek, the hope behind 
every suppressed grimace. I am hope; the hope in every wrinkle of the face. I am the hope in the 
labored footsteps; the hope in the tired hands. I am hope that causes every tired eye to open and very 
sealed mouth to speak. I am hope that helps you survive. I am hope that keeps you going.