Category: Journal

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Free Spirit

When we arrived at our place in St. Thomas, Ontario, where my family and I would stay for a part of the summer, one of the first things we did was pull out our bikes. My dad went over to our old house where my uncle and aunt are living, to bring over the few bikes we had stored there as well as two that we were borrowing from my uncle and aunt.

When the bikes arrived in the back of the truck, my brother and I were asked to go and help my dad clean them all up and get them ready for riding. We hadn’t seen most of the bikes at all, and when we did, were we ever surprised. The two bikes from my uncle and aunt were shiny and new, mountain bikes in their prime. They had enough gears to keep you changing all day and looked too good to even ride. My dad’s bike on the other hand, had seen a much different life. Dragged out of someone’s garbage, it was rusty, cheap and far past its prime, if it ever had one! Then there was my bike, or my sister’s; we weren’t quite sure. It looked like a kid’s bike, painted burgundy, used here and there and nothing special in any way. However, the bike that caught my attention was not any of these. Instead, it was my mum’s old ten-speed racing bike from high school. It’s thin frame and tires looked used and enjoyed while its old chrome joints wore the rust of time. ‘Free Spirit’ was painted on the frame in thin white letters.

Looking at the bike and reading those words, it struck me that this bike was a relic of the past. Other bikes had ‘Mountain Tamer,’ ‘Ridge Rider,’ and ‘Trailblazer’ written across them, but it seemed to me, a completely different approach. These new mountain bikes were well oiled machines, made to conquer nature, climb the highest mountain and tear down into valley. But in my mum’s blue racing bike was something else: a free spirit. It echoed a breath of fresh air from the past. It was the kind of bike that seemed to camouflage into whichever weathered fence it leaned against. It seemed at home wherever it was. It didn’t shout out its existence, but faded into a quite place of being without screaming. Its rusted frame asked only to be free, to fly across paths, not bending nature to itself, but simply enjoying it. It held a spirit, not of conquering but of enjoying.

I saw in that bike a desire that I had longed to fulfil. One of being. Not being loud, not being noticed but just being. To me, that bike was freedom; freedom to roam wherever I pleased and to enjoy nature as a part of it. It was there, riding on my mum’s old bike from high school; a bike that had been around long before I was born, that I felt truly free; a ‘Free Spirit.’

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The Barber Shop

Going to a barber in Jhik is so much more than simply getting your hair cut. You step into the one room shop, off the road and instantly you are in a different world. Here, time means nothing; there is no clock, no bells and no people to tell you where you need to be. Nothing calls you elsewhere and within minutes you forget about time altogether.
The birds chirp outside and smells of shaving cream and other toiletries float around the room. The barber continues talking with the others in the room, laughing and exchanging jokes. You feel a part of their world, listening to them talk and argue with each other of politics or local happenings. However, at the same time you are detached. The dialogue goes on without you and there is no need to speak or to carry on a conversation. Sitting in the chair as your hair is being cut, you feel at ease, listening to them, without speaking—simply enjoying the scene around you.
Even the physical act of the hair cutting is relaxing and almost therapeutic. The gentle clicking of the scissors and manipulation of the hair almost lulls you to sleep as you sit back, closing your eyes and simply enjoying the experience. The spray of the water sprinkles your head before being rubbed into your hair, dripping down your head. Even the razor tickles as it is edged along the back of your neck and around the ears.
When all is done, the barber takes out a towel and rigorously ruffles your hair as, for a moment you seem lost amidst the towel. He then follows up with a head massage, rubbing deep into the scalp and with hard but controlled blows. Knocking your head around, he finishes with a hard squeeze of the muscles in the back of your neck to leave you with a tingling sensation. This whole experience leaves you almost senseless; relaxed and dazed.
You manage to lift yourself out of the chair and onto the bench where others await their haircuts and beard-trims before being given a steaming cup of tea. For a few minutes you sit there, drinking the tea, hot and sweet which runs down your throat and stimulates your relaxed and contented brain. Then you pay the charge, shake the barber’s hand, and step back out into the street; back into a world of time, movement, work and business. And like one who wakes up from a good dream, you trod along the road back home, nostalgic with a happy smile spread across your face.

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Osama bin Laden: Dead

I was drinking tea during our morning break time at school when I heard the news: Osama bin Laden was shot dead in Abottabad the night before. It hit me quite hard, and yet not in a way that I would have expected.
After ten years since the 9/11 attacks in the United States, it seemed ‘about time’ that the US military would finally find Osama bin Laden. But, at the news of his death, I felt as if I had lost a friend. Of course, not a friend in the sense that I knew him; I had know of him, and I felt we had something in common—something we shared.
I had followed his actions and movements in the news over the years, I lived in the same country as he did for some time and I knew people who held the same faith as he did. He was close enough to me, that had I taken a car, it would have been only a few hours before I arrived on his doorstep. He was someone I would have liked to have spoken to—to have had a chance at understanding his mind, what drove him and what he believed. He seemed to me a veteran of the War on Terror, a leader to be revered and feared. Perhaps it was only because of the archaic ideals of honouring one’s enemy that I felt this way. But whatever the reason, I felt I had shared the same earth as he did for some time, and lived under the same blue sky—we seemed to have something in common.
When I heard the news, I wasn’t quite sure how to react. How many people feel remorse over the loss of a hunted terrorist? How many people refrained from cheers and laughter? Perhaps it is a feeling that should be shared by more, or perhaps it was simply the silly feelings of a young idealist. At any rate, I feel sorry to have lost someone with whom I shared this world.

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Thanks

I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone for reading my blog, giving your support, and for your valuable input. Writing is about the reader, so a huge thank you to all of you!

-Josh