November 19th, 1964

If it weren't for Rudyard Kipling and Mr. James, I'd be fast asleep by now, like Farkhanda is, like my parents are, like any sane person would be after such a long day. I'm exhausted after helping Abugee carry our massive trunk up seven flights of stairs to our new home, and then unpacking.

But I said I was going to start a journal the first day we arrived in our new land, and I'm doing it.

It won't be like those dusty volumes that Mr. James kept on the bookshelves behind his desk.

But I do mean to record my history, our history, as if it were just as important.

How our teachers back in Pakistan would go on and on about the glory of Britain! Like the one time Mr. James brought in a chit of paper that was ragged and torn around the edges. It didn't look impressive but he held it like it was made of gold. It was a note, addressed to him, that Rudyard Kipling had written. I got to thinking right there and then, Is that British habit of documenting everything so thoroughly what gives them some kind of advantage? Is it that they value their past experiences, instead of like so many Pakistanis I know, who live life day to day, never looking back?

I decided right then that I would try this for myself.

Why not? I'm named after Zayd bin Thabit, the Prophet's (peace be upon him) scribe. Why shouldn't I chronicle my life so that one day I can look back and see where I've been? You never know, maybe one day someone will hold up a slip of paper I once wrote upon and marvel at its value.

Ha! Imagine me becoming as famous as Rudyard Kipling!

Never mind, I might find value in keeping a journal.

When we disembarked this morning in Toronto and drove to the ragtag apartment building here on Caroline Street in Hamilton, I thought, What better time to start than on the first day we arrived here in Canada, a land both exciting and foreign, with no mango or guava trees and not a wild parrot to be seen?


From Dear Canada: Hoping for Home, copyright © 2011 by Rukhsana Khan.

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