Meray dil, tu hai musafir ~ zindagi eik safar hai.

Last night, after a wicked final, I was trucking on from my class to the parking garage. When arrived at the car, I flung the books onto the back-seat in a way that it would’ve offended the professor if he had observed the scene.

See, that is the thing about finals, they are FINAL. Over! Fini! Halas! Once finals are over, one dares not look back at the books out of fear of forgetting the subject; remembering it; or turning into stone. Instead of feeling knowledgeable, why does one feel so labotomized after such events?

Kher, after kicking butt in exam (or getting butt kicked, all dependent upon the results) I was feeling like a real bad ass. Slightly annoyed at an ant paced car in front of me, I suddenly swerved onto my left lane, ignoring all the pleading indicators behind, including a monster car on my tail.

Generally, not so aggressive, I blamed the lit cigarette, the wavy hair and my little black leather jacket for my road-side manners.

Red light ~ The car that was behind me earlier, eventually caught up to me at this light. Not only this monster of a car had an imminent presence but there had been a monster of a guy sitting in the driver’s seat waving his arm in attempts to catch my attention.

Shit. Here comes some road rage drama.

The windows rolled down. He roared, "you’re still a bitch, huh?". I almost died laughing; of course, I knew him! I knew him really well, too well. Then he imitated the smoking gesture, holding an invisible cigarette in his hand and exhaling air through his gorgeous jaw, confirmative-ly stating, "I always knew it!". Slightly humiliated, I defended myself, "well, you were asthma-tic, it wouldn’t have been fair".

Suddenly his handsome face turns all serious, "does anyone really know you?" I slowly replied, mixing a hint of sadness with a sincere smile, "I’m grateful to the ones that actually tried."
"Sorry for cutting you off earlier", I said pointing at the road. "That’s one thing you need not be sorry for Ms.", his words sending flashes of past down my memory lane. It was my fault! In his case, it was mine ...

Green light. Off we go; waving, smiling, grinning.

Before the brain started its parade into the streets of past heading straight down the boulevard of sense of loss, I had pulled up a monster stop sign. You see, that’s the thing about finals. They are FINAL! Over. Fini. Halas. Once finals are over, one dares not look back at the memories out of fear of remembering the relationship; forgetting it; or turning into stone. That is the way with finals!