An Awkward Walk Through the Caravans of Memory

I remember the day well. It was six years ago, almost to the hour. I was sleeping in my apartment in Dallas, on a spring 1-800-mattress on the floor. I didn't know it then but my hermit-like existence was in its initial stages and I had gone to bed some three hours before. But deep, rejuvenating sleep was elusive.

I could hear my roommate, John, walk around in the kitchen - he'd spent the night at his girlfriends, maybe he'd come home early. Back then I had a wife, who'd been living in New York City for the past three months while I finished up graduate school. I missed her. I missed her enough to cuddle with my bought-from-Walmart pillow, cooing sweet nothings into its nonexistent ear. And then both my phones rang and kept ringing for the next twenty minutes.

"What IS it?" I thought.

The caller-ID said "Maa". I knew something was wrong, I just didn't know what. As I dialed her number, I turned on the TV... and I knew what had happened.

I couldn't get through to anyone in New York. My parents phone line in upstate New York was busy. My wifes cell phone in New York was going straight to voice mail.

The second plane hit the south tower.

I was panicking. I had no idea what was happening. As someone who was born Muslim, I had very little doubt that people belonging to the same religion as mine were responsible for this. But I was helpless. Helpless to stop the attack, helpless to those in need in New York. Helpless to comfort those I loved more than anything else. Helpless to do anything other than sit on the floor, eyes burning but glued to the TV.

Eventually, I got in touch with everyone I needed to. They were all shaken up but well. I spent the next two days in my room, leaving for food only once. I watched every second of news coverage, smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Became irrational and went online with the eventual goal of finding some herb. Was successful. Made a friend too... and we're still friends.

It's been six years and I can't help but think of how things have changed since then. I can't help but believe how that one clear summer day is almost singularly responsible for the eventual path my life has taken. Not to mention how this one day changed the lives of so many others.

This 30 year old, divorced, lapsed Muslim, pot-smoking, Pakistani New Yorker remembers... and is unlikely to forget.