my fingertips and I had read around it, after having rehearsed it before Ahmer, and once in front of Kavita. I felt adequately prepared to field questions, especially those around the Vietnam War.
For the first time, giving a speech was almost enjoyable, rather than being the burdensome chore it once was. I was conscious of the fact that everyone noticed the transformation I had undergone. Afterwards, Professor Davis caught up with me and said that I had earned an A for my presentation. I was ecstatic and ran across the arched corridor with a wide grin on my face, letting the golden sunlight pour generously on my face, permitting the wind to tangle the strands of my hair. I jumped on the squares on the floor, stones that each graduating class had placed since the opening of Stanford in 1891. I raced like a child who had just mastered the art of running, leaping onto each stone: 1995, 1996, 1997. I had taken a semester off initially when I had been overwhelmed, and there were some moments that had raised doubts in my mind about my future. But I had come a long way, and I knew that there would be many more inscriptions, and there would be one for 2001. And for the first time, I felt confident that I would be part of that stone.
I told Ahmer I owed it all to him, and he modestly replied, “It was you up there, Sana, not me. You have every reason to be confident. I am proud of you.”
From that day on, I started enjoying presentations, and they soon became my strength rather than my weakness. I volunteered for the topics that were left unselected and signed up to intern at a local news channel. Was this really me? The hand shaking, voice trembling, timid girl who had feared the audience worse than a head on collision? I could not believe that I was taking on the challenge of facing thousands of people and actually looking forward to it.
Ahmer had changed me in so many ways that I did not feel like the same person. I felt prettier, taller. I felt much happier than before. My life seemed to be unfolding like the undulating notes of a symphony in the midst of a beautiful composition. I enjoyed my internship thoroughly and finalized my decision to pursue a career in broadcasting. It gave me a great appreciation of all the hard work behind the scenes. I learnt that the one-hour newscast was much more than that one-hour, that in fact, it involved a full day of preparation.
One evening, as we were sitting in the quad after another day of hard work, Ahmer showed me a picture of his mother, a young lady in her thirties with a radiant smile and thick, glossy black hair.
“She was beautiful,” I said, a sadness overcoming me as I realized I would never know this woman, who had raised her son so well. “You have her eyes, Ahmer, and her hair was so becoming, so shiny.”
“Yes. She had gorgeous long hair. She would brush it with a special brush and put coconut oil and henna in it. And then the chemotherapy made it all come out. She was a really strong woman who went through a lot of physical and emotional pain and never showed it. But the night her hair came out, she cried for hours, and so did I.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling his pain and wanting to share it, and hoping to dampen it with words of comfort that I could not find. I had always thought that my pain had been so intensebecause my father had died so suddenly, leaving me no time to prepare for it. But when I thought of Ahmer’s pain, it did not seem any less, because he had seen his mother dying slowly and painfully.
During one of our many evening conversations, I asked Ahmer why he had chosen law. “Stanford Law School is very tough to get into,” I said. “I heard that the acceptance rate is 9 percent. You must be brilliant.”
“There are many people far more brilliant than me,” he replied modestly. “Some of them are friends and acquaintances, and many of them applied but didn’t get accepted. It’s tough to get in if you are not focused. If you
For the first time, giving a speech was almost enjoyable, rather than being the burdensome chore it once was. I was conscious of the fact that everyone noticed the transformation I had undergone. Afterwards, Professor Davis caught up with me and said that I had earned an A for my presentation. I was ecstatic and ran across the arched corridor with a wide grin on my face, letting the golden sunlight pour generously on my face, permitting the wind to tangle the strands of my hair. I jumped on the squares on the floor, stones that each graduating class had placed since the opening of Stanford in 1891. I raced like a child who had just mastered the art of running, leaping onto each stone: 1995, 1996, 1997. I had taken a semester off initially when I had been overwhelmed, and there were some moments that had raised doubts in my mind about my future. But I had come a long way, and I knew that there would be many more inscriptions, and there would be one for 2001. And for the first time, I felt confident that I would be part of that stone.
I told Ahmer I owed it all to him, and he modestly replied, “It was you up there, Sana, not me. You have every reason to be confident. I am proud of you.”
From that day on, I started enjoying presentations, and they soon became my strength rather than my weakness. I volunteered for the topics that were left unselected and signed up to intern at a local news channel. Was this really me? The hand shaking, voice trembling, timid girl who had feared the audience worse than a head on collision? I could not believe that I was taking on the challenge of facing thousands of people and actually looking forward to it.
Ahmer had changed me in so many ways that I did not feel like the same person. I felt prettier, taller. I felt much happier than before. My life seemed to be unfolding like the undulating notes of a symphony in the midst of a beautiful composition. I enjoyed my internship thoroughly and finalized my decision to pursue a career in broadcasting. It gave me a great appreciation of all the hard work behind the scenes. I learnt that the one-hour newscast was much more than that one-hour, that in fact, it involved a full day of preparation.
One evening, as we were sitting in the quad after another day of hard work, Ahmer showed me a picture of his mother, a young lady in her thirties with a radiant smile and thick, glossy black hair.
“She was beautiful,” I said, a sadness overcoming me as I realized I would never know this woman, who had raised her son so well. “You have her eyes, Ahmer, and her hair was so becoming, so shiny.”
“Yes. She had gorgeous long hair. She would brush it with a special brush and put coconut oil and henna in it. And then the chemotherapy made it all come out. She was a really strong woman who went through a lot of physical and emotional pain and never showed it. But the night her hair came out, she cried for hours, and so did I.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling his pain and wanting to share it, and hoping to dampen it with words of comfort that I could not find. I had always thought that my pain had been so intensebecause my father had died so suddenly, leaving me no time to prepare for it. But when I thought of Ahmer’s pain, it did not seem any less, because he had seen his mother dying slowly and painfully.
During one of our many evening conversations, I asked Ahmer why he had chosen law. “Stanford Law School is very tough to get into,” I said. “I heard that the acceptance rate is 9 percent. You must be brilliant.”
“There are many people far more brilliant than me,” he replied modestly. “Some of them are friends and acquaintances, and many of them applied but didn’t get accepted. It’s tough to get in if you are not focused. If you
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