I was born in November 1973 in Peshawar, Pakistan, a city within the province formerly known as the North-West Frontier Province (NWFP). This region has since been renamed Khyber Pakhtunkhwa (KPK). While some individuals are fortunate enough to have a plethora of vivid childhood memories, I, regrettably, do not belong to that group. My memories are a mix of a few significant ones interspersed with scattered, vague recollections of my early childhood.

My birth took place at Minhas Hospital, a modest establishment with which my family had connections, even some relationship with the owners. Naturally, this hospital was an important part of my early years.

I commenced my kindergarten education at the age of 5, a start that might be considered slightly late by some standards. The institution I attended was, at the time, the most prestigious and recognized school in Peshawar. Admission was highly competitive, but I was able to enroll thanks to my father's connections. All my siblings, except for my sister, also attended this school. Being the youngest of five, I followed in the footsteps of my three brothers and one sister, making me the last and youngest among them.

The school, a part of the Pakistan Air Force Degree College, was unique in that it offered a continuum of education from kindergarten through to what is referred to as college in Pakistan but encompasses elementary, middle, and high school education in one institution. I have vivid memories of my time in kindergarten, particularly of its location at the very end of junior side and its separate entrance, which allowed for earlier dismissal times for the young students.

My father, who was still in service at the time, would sometimes pick me up, but more often, it was his driver who would come for me. These journeys home, often via public transportation, are among my cherished memories. As I progressed to elementary school, I recall the vast compound of our school, which shared facilities with the Pakistan Air Force. This included extensive grounds for soccer, hockey, cricket, running tracks, and even swimming pools, although the latter were reserved for Air Force personnel.

One of my earliest and most vivid memories is from the day of my admission interview for kindergarten. Accompanied by my father and my brother, who was just a year and a half older than me, the interview was a mere formality. The teacher asked me a few simple questions, accepted me into the program, and rewarded me with two candies. This moment, symbolizing my official entry into the academic world, remains etched in my memory.

Transitioning into the first grade, my memories become somewhat fragmented, yet certain events from that period and the rest of my elementary school years stand out. One such memory is the day I developed chickenpox. My teacher noticed the rash spreading across my body and immediately called my home. With my father away at work, it was my mother and aunt who came to my rescue, picking me up from school and taking me home for the necessary quarantine period before I could eventually return.

Reflecting on those early years, my experiences in elementary school were fairly typical, with one notable exception: the teachers. Some, like Miss Memuna, a heavyset woman, instilled fear in us students. Known for her intimidating demeanor, she wouldn't hesitate to use a stick or ruler for punishment, making her presence one to be feared. Another teacher, Miss Siddiqui, had her own method of discipline, using her pen to poke any misbehaving student on the head. These two teachers remain memorable not for their pedagogical skills but for the terror they induced.

In hindsight, I speculate about the personal lives of these educators. Many, I realize, were single women, possibly reflecting broader societal issues. They might have faced challenges in finding a partner due to various reasons, such as appearance, socioeconomic status, or family background, compounded by the cultural expectations in Pakistan where familial arrangements play a significant role in marriage. This, coupled with a likely lack of independence and possible depression, might have led them to vent their frustrations and bitterness on their students, though this is merely my analysis from a distance.

Thinking about it now, not just in elementary but also in middle school and beyond, a significant number of teachers were single women. Their unmarried status, in a society where a woman's independence is greatly limited, might have contributed to a negative outlook on life, which unfortunately could be reflected in their interactions with students. Therefore, my memories of these early educators are overshadowed by a sense of dread rather than any positive influence.

As for my academic performance, I was an average student, excelling in nothing but mathematics. This subject was my sole academic stronghold amidst an otherwise undistinguished school career.

In my academic pursuits, I was generally average across all subjects except for mathematics, in which I consistently excelled. This talent became particularly evident in my fifth-grade results, a pivotal moment as it marked the transition to middle school, or as we called it, the senior side. This transition was significant not only academically but also culturally within the school. For example, while on the junior side, students were required to wear shorts until the 6th grade, which I found uncomfortable. The prospect of joining the senior side, where pants could be worn year-round, was particularly appealing to me. Additionally, being among older students held its own allure.

I have preserved all my report cards from grade 1 through to grade 12, despite their worn condition. These cards, especially the one from the sixth grade, serve as tangible reminders of my academic journey. The fifth-grade report card stands out because advancing to the middle school was a significant milestone. It documented my perfect score in mathematics, 100 out of 100, highlighting my prowess in the subject. The report cards also listed rankings for each subject and overall class standing, where my mathematical abilities often placed me at the top.

My aptitude for mathematics seemed innate, possibly influenced by genetics. This natural inclination towards numbers has been a constant throughout my life, guiding my educational and professional choices. Ultimately, I pursued a career in accounting, where I engage with numbers daily. This enduring connection to mathematics began early and was commemorated by the pride my father showed when collecting my report cards. Those moments, especially shared with my brother who was just a year and seven months older than me, are precious. Unfortunately, he passed away at the young age of 42 after battling colon cancer. Our closeness in age made him a constant companion in my early years, intensifying the impact of our shared experiences.

Progressing from elementary to middle school—or as it was known in our school, the senior side—marked the beginning of my senior years, spanning grades 6 through 10. This transition was a notable chapter in my educational journey, filled with both academic and personal growth.

During my time in middle school, life followed a familiar routine with regular classes interspersed with physical training (PT) sessions. For these PT classes, we would leave our school compound and cross the junior site to access the sports grounds. There, I mainly played soccer, enjoying the simplicity and camaraderie of the game. Occasionally, I also played hockey, a sport I found intriguing enough to ask my parents for my own hockey stick. Despite my varied interests in sports, I was by no means an exceptional athlete but rather an average student participant.

An interesting aspect of our school was the presence of students who had to repeat their grades due to failing. At the start of each new grade, we would often find these students already seated in the classroom, a clear indication of their repetition. It was not uncommon to have two, three, or sometimes even more students repeating a grade. Those who had failed multiple times could be significantly older than the rest of us by two or three years. This age difference often translated into an advantage in sports, where older students naturally excelled, likely due to their physical maturity in addition to any inherent athletic talent.

Reflecting on the impact of age, I realize that a two-year difference at the age of 15 is quite significant, potentially offering a substantial advantage in physical activities. This observation explains why students who struggled academically could shine in sports. Personally, I was thankful to be placed appropriately in my grade, as it spared me from potential challenges that could have arisen from being either too young or too old for my class.

Regarding my interactions with peers, I fortunately never experienced bullying. Instead, I found myself in a position where I was never targeted, possibly due to my size, which deterred would-be bullies. However, I do recall moments of teasing and engaging in mischief with younger and smaller classmates, a common occurrence in the dynamics of school life.

I'd like to share a few anecdotes from my middle school years. One day, after presumably misbehaving in class, my teacher decided that I needed to be sent to the headmistress, Nasreen Taj, who oversaw our discipline. For more severe cases, students would be sent to the headmaster, Sir Zafar. On this particular occasion, since the teacher couldn't leave the class unattended, she assigned a student who had repeated the year to escort me. This student, being older and more mature than us, was deemed responsible enough for the task.

As we were on our way to the headmistress's office, passing by the cafeteria, I proposed a detour: I'd buy him some samosas and a Coke if he agreed to forget the whole headmistress matter. Given his maturity, he found the proposal appealing and agreed. We ended up spending some time in the cafeteria instead, and upon returning to class, he covered for me, telling the teacher that the headmistress had indeed reprimanded me.

Another vivid memory I have involves our school's morning assembly routine. Every day, the assembly included Quran recitation, the national anthem, and a poem by our national poet, Iqbal. It was also a time for announcements from the principal, headmistress, or headmaster. During these assemblies, each grade and section would line up separately. While I was placed in section A in the first grade, I found myself in section C from the second grade onward, remaining there through to my college graduation.

These assemblies also included uniform checks. One particular day stands out in my memory, though the specifics of the event have faded over time. What remains is a vivid sense of the structured yet dynamic environment of my school years, characterized by both discipline and moments of mischief.

In our school, students were also divided into groups known as "houses," which played a significant role in fostering team spirit and competition. The houses were named Saladin, Tariq, Qasim, and Khaled, each represented by a distinct color. Tariq House, which I was part of, was designated with orange. Saladin House was associated with yellow, Khaled with red, and Qasim with blue.

Each student was assigned to one of these houses, a decision that seemed random from my perspective. This system encouraged participation in various school activities organized by house. In the beginning, I was in Khaled House—the red one—but I spent most of my school years in Tariq House. My siblings were all in Khaled House, wearing badges on their uniforms that were red. My badge, however, was orange to represent Tariq House, and it had the letter 'T' inscribed on it, while the other houses had their respective initials: 'S' for Saladin, 'Q' for Qasim, and so forth.

The rationale behind which students were placed in which houses or classes seemed unclear to me. It appeared to be a long-standing tradition of the school, given its historical existence. The names of the houses and their corresponding colors added a layer of identity and pride to our school life.

Returning to the memory of a particular school assembly, my teacher pointed out that my shoes did not conform to the school's dress code. They might have been loafers or boots without laces, or possibly they were of a slightly different color than what was required. This attention to detail in uniform regulations was a common aspect of our school's discipline and order.

That day, a teacher noticed I was wearing shoes that didn't meet the school's dress code. Identifying himself as a lead teacher from Tariq House, he decided to take action. "You're wearing the wrong shoes," he said, explaining his plan to take me to the headmaster, Sir Zafar, before classes began. Upon presenting me to Sir Zafar, the teacher reported my footwear violation. Instead of punishing me immediately, Sir Zafar instructed me to inform my father that he was required to meet with him the following day. I doubted Sir Zafar would remember this minor infraction amidst his many responsibilities, so I chose not to mention it at home.

Surprisingly, Sir Zafar did remember and sent for me the next day, expecting my father to accompany me. When I appeared alone, he was unimpressed by my claim that I had relayed his message. As a consequence, he stationed me outside his office, saying I would remain there until my father arrived. This punishment lasted through two or three class periods, an embarrassing ordeal as peers and faculty passed by, including the headmistress. Upon seeing me still standing there, the headmistress intervened, suggesting I apologize and assure the headmaster my father would visit the following day.

True to my word, I informed my father of the situation, and he complied by visiting the school, resolving the issue with minimal fuss. Reflecting on this episode and other similarly petty disciplinary actions, I feel these experiences didn't contribute significantly to my education. Much of my meaningful learning occurred after leaving school, highlighting a missed opportunity for more impactful teaching during those years.

Moreover, the school's strict regulations extended to personal appearance, including hair length. On occasion, a barber would be invited to the school, and the headmistress would inspect each classroom. Any student deemed to have hair too long would be sent for an immediate haircut. This strict adherence to appearance standards was another aspect of the school's rigid approach to discipline.

To bypass the strict hair code enforcement, we once found ourselves negotiating with the school's barber. Without a mirror in sight, we were left in the dark about how our haircuts would turn out. Seizing an opportunity to avoid an unwanted trim towards the school day's end, I offered the barber a small sum of money to pretend he had cut my hair, allowing me to get it cut by my preferred barber later. This exchange is a vivid example of how we navigated the school's strict rules, often resorting to cunning strategies to mitigate their impact.

These incidents, ranging from bribing a fellow student to avoid discipline from the headmistress to persuading the barber to forgo cutting our hair, were serious matters to us at the time, reflecting both the harshness of school authorities and the resourcefulness of students. Our hair was particularly important to us; we would often use combs from our coat pockets to ensure our appearance was just right, given the chance.

Another notable memory involves a physical altercation with a classmate, leading to an encounter with the headmistress who decided physical reprimand was necessary. Despite my reluctance, I was forced to remove my glasses before receiving a slap, a punishment also meted out to the other student involved in the fight.

Interestingly, years later, the headmistress faced financial difficulties, and it was one of the students she had frequently disciplined who spearheaded a fundraising effort for her. This student, who had experienced her strictness firsthand, was instrumental in rallying support for her. We all contributed, moved by the circumstances shared through a video he created. This turn of events underscores a profound lesson on the enduring impact of our actions and the unexpected ways in which compassion can emerge. Regrettably, this kind-hearted former student has since passed away, leaving behind a legacy of generosity and forgiveness.

Among the few from our early school years who have passed away, the same student was particularly memorable for his boldness. I recall a day when he was taken to the headmaster, Sir Zafar, for misbehaving. Upon his return, we were all anxious to know what had happened, fearing the worst. When we asked him if he was okay, he nonchalantly showed us a fancy pen he had in his hand. Astonishingly, he revealed that during his reprimand by the headmaster, he had managed to swipe the pen and pocket it. This act of defiance was both shocking and somewhat admirable, demonstrating his audacity amidst our collective fear.

This story, along with others, illustrates how the school environment fostered a certain cunningness and adaptability among students. Whether it was navigating strict disciplinary actions or finding ways to excel academically under challenging conditions, we learned to be resourceful.

Academic success often hinged on the quality of one’s notes. Top students, known for their meticulous note-taking, became invaluable resources. Their notebooks were treasures, filled with comprehensive notes and neatly completed assignments. Since the teaching method primarily involved dictation, those with the best notes had a significant advantage. Occasionally, if one missed a class or needed to catch up, borrowing these coveted notebooks for photocopying was essential. I remember once borrowing a top student’s notebook, not just for photocopying but also for my father to transcribe the notes in his impeccable Urdu handwriting for my Pakistan Studies subject. This effort even garnered compliments from my teacher, unaware that the handwriting was not mine.

Requesting extra money from our parents for photocopies became a routine, though not all the funds were always used as intended. My monthly allowance was a modest 25 rupees, so any additional requests for photocopying or other educational expenses were strategic ways to stretch our resources, sometimes diverting them to other uses.

In our middle school years, the cafeteria was a central hub of activity, offering a respite from the rigors of academic life. With limited funds, many of us couldn’t always afford cold drinks, so a typical snack would consist of tea, which was quite affordable, accompanied by two samosas. Beef patties were another popular choice among students. We had an informal loan system with the person running the cafeteria, who would keep a tab on our purchases, allowing us to settle our accounts monthly. It was customary for friends to take turns covering each other's expenses, fostering a sense of community and shared responsibility.

However, the camaraderie found in the cafeteria contrasted with the competitiveness over academic materials. Notably, some students resorted to stealing notebooks from top-performing peers, especially if they weren’t on good terms. This underhanded tactic deprived hardworking students of their valuable notes. Thankfully, my notes were never targeted due to their perceived lack of quality, but this was a common plight for top students. Throughout our years, one student consistently outperformed the rest, maintaining the top position, while others vied for the subsequent ranks. Though I’ve lost touch with him, I imagine he continues to thrive.

Reflecting on those days, it’s evident that academic performance in school doesn’t necessarily predict success in later life. Many of us, who were considered average or even below average, have also found our paths to success. Being academically gifted is just one aspect; being street smart and adaptable is equally important, especially in a society like Pakistan's, where resourcefulness can be a critical asset. Interestingly, many former classmates, including myself, have found success abroad, underscoring that early academic achievements are not definitive predictors of future accomplishments.

My Life Journey Part 2