“Well?” Chachi looked at me expectantly.

“Well,” I began gingerly, “I’m not sure.”

“You’re almost done with eighth grade!” Chachi exclaimed.

“I’m 12,” I answered in my head, “You can’t expect me to make life-defining decisions at 12.”

Amma coaxed Chachi, “I’m sure she’ll excel in whatever she chooses.”

“That’s not very comforting to know,” Chachi was getting angry now. “My children knew they wanted to be doctors when they were barely crawling and your girl is growing by the minute, time is of the essence.”

“You talk as if she’s 50 and greying,” Amma was getting impatient. “Zuni, go get some biscuits, please.”

I took my leave, relieved to be out of Chachi’s watchful glare. I didn’t know who I was angrier at — Chachi, for being so nosy, or me, for being so indecisive. I had to make a decision as to which field I was to pursue by the end of the week.

After Chachi left, Amma tried to scold me, but I was so mentally preoccupied that I only remembered snippets of her lecture telling me “to get serious” but “take my time” and “be smart about it” but “not to overthink it”, which are some very contrasting ideas merged into one, that didn’t help me very much. But at least she wasn’t harsh about it.

It wasn’t until I was doing my school assignment on my computer one day when I glanced at the bottom of my screen and realised it had nearly been a week since Chachi had visited. How had time passed so quickly?

I finished my work and went out into the kitchen where Abbu was cooking something.

“What’s up with you?” Abbu inquired as he worked.

“Nothing,” I mumbled.

“There must be something wrong. You never leave the computer on your own accord.”

“I was doing my homework, actually.” I snipped.

“Only teasing,” Abbu laughed. “But really, what’s up? You’ve been very quiet these days.”

“I’ve been trying to make a decision about my O Level subjects.”

“That’s easy. Just do what your heart desires.”

“Wow!” I said sarcastically, “Why didn’t I ever think of that?”

“Okay, okay,” Abbu snickered. “That’s bad advice. Why don’t you choose medicine?”

“I’ve seen how much work you and Amma do, I’d rather not torture myself like that.”

“Hey, now! We have a lot of fun, okay. Well . . . not fun, but we are content with how our lives have turned out.”

“But I don’t wanna be ‘content’, I want to enjoy what I do and be happy!” I whined.

“See, that’s the problem; People waste their lives chasing some kind of a high, childlike happiness, something that sparks joy in them, and they never find it. You know why? It’s because they don’t understand what happiness truly is.

“If happiness were a constant state of being, then we wouldn’t appreciate it as much. That’s why humans invented words like merry, carefree, content, satisfied. Because if we related anything remotely positive to being happy and anything remotely negative to being depressed, then we wouldn’t be called complex beings, would we? We’d be no better than animals.

“Like Steve from that movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, since he’s a monkey, his thought process goes ‘Happy’, ‘Excited’, ‘Hungry’, ‘Sad’, but we’re not Steve, Zuni. We’re so much more.”

“But the question remains, what do I do with my life?”

Abbu chuckled lightly. “You’ll understand these things someday. But for now, don’t choose a life looking for one feeling, choose something that just feels. . . right. Soon you’ll find what you’re really looking for.”

Frowning at his cryptic sayings, I slowly shuffled back to my bed and ran my eyes over the pros and cons list I had been working on.

‘Choose something that feels right.’

“Assalam-o-alaikum, Chachi,” I gave her a side hug. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she answered curtly. “Did you think about which subjects you want to pursue yet or are you still unsure?”

Her snide remarks had no effect on me today, I was getting quite used to them now, it was a matter of time before everyone in my family would realise that I didn’t care about their opinions.

“I actually have.”

“You . . . have?” Amma inquired.

“I’m choosing pre-medical subjects for now.”

“For now?” Chachi sounded sceptical. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll see if I like it or not. If I don’t, I can change my major whenever I want to, since medicine is the only field that grants you the opportunity.”

“So, what you’re saying is that you still don’t know what you want to do?” Chachi interrogated.

“I don’t want to rush myself into making a decision that I will regret a few years down the line. I can’t make every single decision regarding my studies as if it were life or death. Allah has written a path for me and I am confident that it is the best.”

“So now you’ll do nothing and expect Allah to do everything for you?” Chachi cut me off.

“No, I will study and pray and do my best in O Level and I’m sure by the end of it, I will be wise enough to know exactly what I want from life.”

“And what if you don’tknow by then?” Chachi pressed. “What will you do then? Become one of those delinquents who waste their lives doing arts?”

“I’m pretty sure studying arts doesn’t make you a delinquent, being judgmental, however, does.”

Amma glared at me, “That’s enough, Zunaira.”

Chachi swivelled her head towards Abbu. “So, this is what you’re teaching your daughter, to be rude and disrespectful to her elders?”

“I’m just teaching her how to be able to think on her own,” Abbu said coolly. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d give her that liberty as well.”

After Chachi left, Amma began to give me a whole lecture about what Chachi would think and how the whole extended family was going to find out about my misbehaviour and what theywould think but Abbu stopped her midway and calmed her down.

“Beta,” Amma was much more coherent now, “Chachi loves you. If she didn’t, she would never care about your future or make you care about it either.”

“She cares quite loudly though,” I grumbled.

“She just doesn’t know how to express it,” Amma chided. “You must know everyone is on your side, no one wants to see you fail.”

“What exactly is ‘failing’? Me not getting good grades? I can assure you, I will work to the best of my abilities. If even trying to be good is a success, then I’ll surely never fail.”

“She knows what she’s doing,” Abbu added.

Amma smiled. “I hope so. Or we’ll have to let her Chachi counsel her.”

“Amma!”

“I’m kidding!” she laughed.

“I promise you, the 16-year-old me will be sharper than me. And even if she isn’t, then you will haveto cut her some slack. I mean, she’d be just 16!”

“I’m sure 16-year-old you will be using this same argument, too,” Abbu shook his head fondly. “Now, come on, let’s eat. Your Amma has made pasta for dinner.”

Published in Dawn, Young World, February 20th, 2021