Don't Remind Me

Chapter 29: The Acme

"Today we talk about a demonic exam strategy, that Professors learn during their internships at Hades Universal Teacher's Symposium. 

No, we're not talking about a certain Development Economics professor who decided to troll us by setting an "All False" answer key in a True/False based exam. (65 False Statements...May Allah forgive your sins, Sir.)

We're talking about "Cheat Sheets". A word that causes a wave of incoherent, relieved sobbing to run through the student body. 

The truth is, this is all a mind trick. A false promise. A mirage in the middle of the scorching desert. It's Not Real, folks. FYI: You're still screwed. 

If a professor allows you a cheat sheet before exams, this is what's really going through his mind:

'Awww. Poor suckers. Thinking their puny tools can help them at this dire hour! huehuehue! Your microscopic reproduction of the entire syllabus is no match for my ULTRON-MEGADETH-SUPERFAILER 2.0 Exam paper. *Evil Cackles* Time to die, mortals. *Unscrews Red Marker*'

--(Nitty Gritty, Issue Number 4545, May 2017)

I remember when I was around 5 or 6 years old. 

My gymnastics coach was a former Olympian, running a Junior Gymnastics School in Islamabad City. Even though I lived in Karachi, He agreed to coach me because of Dad's connections, and my mother's influence. A big fat compensation package, along with handsome accommodations, might have also helped convince him. Dad chose him because he was 'The best' in the field, and nothing less than the best would do for his daughter.

Sikander Azam his name was (Literal Urdu translation of Alexander The Great) A tall, tanned, mercilessly grueling mentor, he often forgot that he was training mere children. 

"I'm training future champions," He used to stress whenever I complained to Dad about him (which was basically every other day. I was very fond of complaining about everything as a kid) "If you don't want her to be one, then I have no business coaching her."

"My daughter will be a champion, Sanam," Dad announced to Mama when she tried to make my training schedule less intense. "In a couple of years, she will be the youngest Olympian to win for Pakistan. See if she won't!"

Just like that. It was decided. 

I had to be home-schooled to keep up with the training hours. 

Despite my complaining, I loved every second I spent at the Gymnastics Club we trained at. 

I laughed, I cried, I got hurt...then I picked myself up again, and again. And again.

"Nobody is going to save you Layla," Sir Sikander flatly refused to help me up after a particularly nasty fall of the Pommel Horse. I was wailing like a banshee, but he wasn't moved by my tears. "dust it off, kid. Pick yourself up, and dust it off. You will live."

I did live. After every hit. After every fall. After every sprained ankle, or twisted elbow...I lived. 

I learned deeply empowering lessons during that time. Everything we did during training, wasn't just physical, it was spiritual too. I didn't realize it at that time, but these lessons are still embedded somewhere.

In retrospect, If I hadn't become ashamed of my body, and quit gymnastics all those years ago, I think it would have been a better alternative to the psychological therapy my mother forced on me. I would have learned to accept my falls, and respect my body for the wonders that it could do...Perhaps I would have been a different person now. An even stronger person.