History Arfa Karim...Proud of be Pakistani

If Only I could Meet You- Arfa!

Cold. Cold was the afternoon air of January 3^rd that scratched my cheek as I walked toward my friends that day. I was here to meet the child prodigy, the extraordinarily gifted sixteen year old: Arfa Karim. I never thought I would be standing outside CMH, unnervingly anticipating what exactly I would see in a few minutes. I had heard she had been on the ventilator for some time, sunken deep in a coma, unaware of the happenings around her.

My friend and I walked into the ICU. The linoleum floor exuded the familiar tang a hospital carried. We approached where she lay, the curtains partially garbing her sight.

Arfa’s mother already knew my friend well. On the other hand, she had not even heard of me. In fact, I had never known Arfa or her family. I was merely a concerned individual.

Her mother turned to us. I couldn’t find any words to say at first. We greeted her and I found the confidence to speak but I spoke with a voice that shivered. With a voice so tremulous, not because of the cold but because of a fear I felt deep within me.

A melancholic aura lingered in the room. The plaintive atmosphere carried such weight, plummeting down on me. I felt afraid for her life.

I told her mother that she may not know me but I was simply concerned about her daughter. I brought with me an incomplete drawing of Arfa. She seemed rather young in the image I found on Google the night before.

Doctors nearby huddled around and admired. Arfa’s mother observed the drawing. She thanked me immensely. Her face lit up as the ends of her mouth curled to form a smile. A smile. I felt I had made a difference, as if I had lightened her spirits. I hope I had. She loved the drawing.

I then told her that we were praying so much for Arfa. I unwillingly enquired of when she would awaken. I wanted more than anything for her to wake up to her life here, to her family, to her friends and to someone with an incomplete drawing clutched in her hands, waiting to befriend her.

Her mother spoke with a smile and in a hushed tone told me that only God would know.

Uncertainty is a torturous part of one’s life. No closure, ever hung in mid air, no land to step down on and no wings to fly above with. Not forever asleep but neither fully awakened: A balance that kills.

Her mother then allowed us to see her. There she was: in a white room with white walls, lying on a white bed, entwined in white sheets and her skin so pallid: already an angel in my eyes.

I imagined she was awake. I said ‘hi’, waved and smiled. I could’ve sworn I had seen her lips move. A smile back, I thought. I hoped. Her sight made my heart sink. She had to wake up. She had to. Hope teemed in my soul for her.

My friend and I walked back outside, our other friends waiting to see our expressions. I felt so afraid but I hoped it wouldn’t show.

Arfa’s mother joined us outside. We talked for some time. She exclaimed that the drawing was ‘cute’, just as I. Every one of us laughed at that. To see the smiling faces of my friends lightened the air and I smiled too, probably the most out of embarrassment. I was glad I came.

Finally saying our goodbyes, it was time to return home. I hoped it wasn’t the last time I would, or anyone would see her. I kept telling my friends to have hope and not to worry.  Everything would be okay.

Unfortunately, about 11 days after the visit, I learnt of the most devastating news. Arfa was gone. She’s gone. I wouldn’t let it infect my mind; I didn’t want to understand what happened. Out of all people, why her? Why someone so great? Why not me? I paced my room back and forth for 20 minutes. It finally sank into me. My eyes watered.

I think about her often now, every 14^th day of every month. I wondered what she had seen or heard if she might have slipped out of the coma for a few minutes, when I heard she had moved a little. We were told she moved her lips slightly, she blinked, she responded to when one called out her name. We were told she was getting better but it wasn’t true. She wasn’t getting better.

I recall about two years ago, ironically toward mid January, I had been on a ventilator for sometime. I would often wake up, rise out of my unconsciousness. I remember hearing muffled, mellow and muted voices and my lungs filling forcefully with heavy air. I remember masked women peering down at me, with only their wide eyes darting into mine. A flash of the hospital’s white image, blurry figures and then, darkness would engulf me.

Had she seen it that way? What would she want to say?
My situation had temporarily worsened. At first, the new morning sky above my family seemed to crash down on them and all they could see was the black night sky. They never lost hope though and always rejoiced under the light of the moon. Everything would be alright soon and indeed it was.

Afra’ s mother seemed full of hope when I spoke with her. We were all full of hope but what happened was only best for her. It was never meant to be best for us.

As an extremely skilled teenage girl, I assume she must have faced much pressure and many hardships. She had set a brilliant record for herself and had to strive to continue to keep it steady. Life may not have been easy for her. She may have struggled to find someone who she could relate to about the kind of person she was: so amazing and absolutely brilliant in everything she did.  Perhaps she took too much pressure and expected more from herself. She was simply too great for this world. She mastered every aspect. This world was no challenge to her but maybe she overworked herself at times, I wonder.

And so, God took her away from this world but I hope she’s dancing in heaven, all the wonderful inconceivable surprises embracing her soul, now at peace, finally, truly and completely happy.

I will never forget you Arfa. I will always remember you but as the exceedingly bright, bubbly and jovial sixteen year old I was told you were, who I would’ve loved to meet. Never as whom I had seen in the hospital. That was not the Arfa Karim the world loves. Sometimes, a first impression isn’t everything. I hope you smile at how many people love you. I hope you smile when you learn I wrote this for you. We love you Arfa.