Nazakat.
A beautiful word derived from the language of Urdu. It holds several meanings of delicateness, frailness, and finesse.
But the meaning I choose to go with is elegance.
Because nazakat is the most elegant of them all.
I invite you to take a...
9|| Being a Bollywood Heroine On a Boat, Minus the Ugly Hero
MUSAFIR: TRAVELLER
Waking up the next morning was like waking up from a nap in the blissful fields of heaven: heavenly to lay in, yet troublesome to leave.
Breakfast consisted of a hefty meal of halwa, poori, and chanay which left me unable to move more than my lazy self already was. However, surprisingly, even my procrastinating self wanted to enjoy this trip to the utmost. So, instead of diving back into those fields of heaven that were constituting my bed above in the room, I decided to change into clothes that made me look less like a zombie, and present a decent version of my being in front of Hunza's beauty.
Skipping downstairs to the rest of my gang (in other words, my oh-so-beloved-family, plus Uncle Feroze—who not-so-patiently waited for my descent by the way), I was all pumped to start the first day with a trip to the Hussaini Hanging Bridge.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It was safe to say that I was the only non-scaredy-cat in this family.
I mean, like, I get Ammi and Abbu not wanting to die on the barely-there bridge, but Zain? Uff, honestly, his shrieks were enough to make me, a perfectly able to listen woman, deaf. He was already reluctant enough going there, but one look at the brittle wood, and he had flat out refused. I had to drag his ass to at least take one tiny step on the bridge—I mean, it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, might as well get on the bridge, scaredy-cat. But no, his highness had failed to budge from his position. Hence, the conclusion that I'm the bravest of this family.
A proud moment indeed.
Having crossed the bridge at least three times, I was finally pulled back to resume the rest of our tour by my not-so-patient family. The next stop on our to-do-list today was Attabad lake. The whole drive I had to listen to Zain's ear-bleeding gushing of the beauty of the lake. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was excited to see the lake, but having someone repeat the same sentences in my ear for God knows how many times can become a real pain in the ass.
"Yar gadhay, tumahray sath masla kia hai bhai? Samajh agai hai na mujhay, buhat piyari hai lake. Ab jaan choro meri." I shoved his face away from my ear—a feeble attempt on my part to save my hearing. Not that it mattered, anyway, since he was back at it in a minute, a smirk of triumph plastered on that insufferable face of his.
"Ammmmmiii look at this gadha! He's been leeching on my blood since forever, for crying out loud. Aap kuch kehti kiyun nahi hai apnay ladlay ko?" I whined to Ammi, who looked about as done with us two as one could be.
"Right now, if you both don't shut up and stop leeching on my blood with those kartoot of yours, I'm going to drop you two here in the middle of the road and continue on with your Abbu and Feroze Sahab."
