The sun always rose brighter when I had school. I remember waking up, rubbing my eyes as the faint voices of vendors drifted through the street outside. Karachi was left behind; this was my new world, a smaller town, yet filled with the kind of wonders only a child could notice.
Cartoons were my first joy of the morning—Doraemon or Shinchan on the TV, their silly antics making me laugh until my stomach hurt. Nobita's adventures, Shinnosuke's mischief—they were my escape, a place where nothing could hurt me.
But soon my real friend would come knocking.
Shan.
My very first friend.
We met on my first day of prep, shy and nervous, staring at the unfamiliar classroom. A smile, a shared pencil, a small conversation—and suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore. By the time school ended, we were planning our games for the afternoon. From that day on, Shan was my shadow, my partner in every adventure.
After school, we would race through the streets, cricket bat in hand, laughing as if the world itself belonged to us. Sometimes we made up our own games, using sticks for swords, or imagining rooftops as castles. The warm dust of the lanes clung to our clothes, and our shouts echoed until the call for Maghrib prayers reminded us it was time to go home.
Evenings were golden. I would hurry home, wash the dust off my hands and face, and sit down for dinner. Every bite of food was accompanied by the sound of laughter or the smell of spices cooking in the kitchen. Afterward, we would sit together in the courtyard, Shan and I, recounting the day's adventures, planning the next one, sharing secrets that only children could keep.
And then came the summers—the highlight of every year. My grandfather's house was a world apart. Cousins, laughter, the smell of earth after the morning rain—it all welcomed me like a second home. I adored being there. Everyone was so kind, so warm, and I obeyed them gladly, eager to belong, eager to feel their love.
We would play hide and seek in the sprawling courtyard, make up stories under the trees, and sometimes just sit quietly, sharing moments without words.
Eid Mornings
Eid mornings were magical. The house buzzed with excitement. My cousins and I would wake before the sun, eager to put on our new clothes. I remember the bright colors of the shalwar kameez, the shiny shoes, the smell of freshly cooked sweet treats.
Family gathered, exchanging greetings and hugs. I clutched my Eidi money tightly, feeling rich in more ways than one. We ran outside to play, the air filled with laughter, our voices echoing like music. Those mornings felt endless, a perfect blend of love, tradition, and childlike wonder.
Birthdays and Little Adventures
Birthdays were another world of joy. I remember my own birthday celebrations—friends from school, Shan always by my side, cakes that smelled like happiness, and small presents that I treasured like treasures from a distant land. Every game, every race, every laugh seemed larger than life. I felt invincible, wrapped in the warmth of family and friendship.
Even during ordinary school days, little adventures made life extraordinary. A surprise game during recess, a small prize won at the annual sports day, or even just sharing a secret with Shan under the shade of a tree—all these moments built a tapestry of joy that I carried in my heart.
Life at that age was simple. Happiness didn't come from wealth or grand things—it came from laughter, games, cartoons, and the love of people who cared. I dreamed of a family like the one I had at my grandfather's home, imagining it could be permanent, though deep down, I didn't yet know how fragile life could be.
Those were my golden days. Days that shimmered with color, warmth, and laughter. Days when I believed, with all my heart, that joy could last forever.