A Journey CaseI couldn’t realize why I woke up abruptly from my short slumber. I had a feeling that I was about to miss something utterly wonderful, probably, that was what woke me up. I looked on my side and saw my brother and mom, fast asleep. Only my dad and obviously, our driver, were awake, as we continued on our journey to “Tangail”, my grandfather’s place. I didn’t understand the point of leaving so early and was slightly irritated at having my sleep destroyed. After all, it was only 7:00 am and the sun had barely risen. Having no other options, I opened the glass to get some fresh air.
The sight that I was met with was simply mesmerizing. I was spellbound at the scenery which seemed, as if to unravel in a slow, yet mind-chillingly delightful manner. On one side of the road, the yellow mustard fields stretched out to infinity, and on the other, the paddy fields seemed like a never-ending sea of lush green beauty. The mustard plants seemed to sparkle as the first rays of the sun struck them. They were all golden, resembling the very nature of gold itself. Between some of the mustard fields, I could see narrow stretches of paths snaking its way through to the villages that huddled together, in the distance. Once or twice, I could make out the outline of a lone goat wandering about, apparently enjoying the beauty of nature as well. Feeling elated and rejuvenated, I looked on to the other side.
The villagers, on the other hand, were more of an ambience. They seemed to notice me immediately, but had to try to avoid a fight. They knew that I had no way of beating my way to victory, having always been an idiot and an inferior.
Of course, I wasn’t the only one. In fact, I was the only one who really felt like I had accomplished almost anything. To be in an entirely different world at all was a major accomplishment and something to rejoice over. To be able to stand over three years on top of the World’s Greatest Hiking Trail—the one I was on at the start—was the greatest accomplishment of my life.
As if on cue, our conversation disappeared.
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One of the more interesting moments in my life came when I looked at the pictures from The Des Moines Register. They were of a tiny town, with a few buildings and one beautiful lake. It was a little bit desolate—there was nothing but dark clouds, little people—but I managed to put on a few miles in front of a large patch of land, and within a couple of hours, I had covered the whole continent of the United Kingdom. After a good long afternoon’s research, I realized it was probably in a very small town, a mere 2,400 feet high. And the only things that could have made life so beautiful there—the view, the flowers, the history of America—were the pictures I had taken of many people in small towns. I was actually there for the first time—not just because I had come from a relatively small town, but because it was a very real sight to see. I found it utterly fascinating. Not just for a reason, but especially for their culture, which they had clearly lost in war, slavery, and colonialism. Even during that brief eternity, it was very hard not to see the great American cultural traditions that we all used to use to get along in the West.