You Can't Be Me!

By Naila Hina

You can't be me! By Engr Dr Naila Hina

These stories are fantastic and suspenseful, written in my early childhood.
Also included are  my reviews on famous and some of my favorite movies. 
poems are typically in my signature style.
Enjoy!

 

Sky is not the limit for her!

Adeeb Sohail,

President: Anjuman e Taraqqi e Urdu

Pakistan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Engineer Naila Hina
• Release date: Oct 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201917784

Book preview

Farhad

By Dr Naila Hina Khan

1989

A nerve wrecking shudder ran through my entire being like blood. I felt the life coming out of my hands and feet.

Such a big lie. Such a big deception. Shirin! Was this the smartness, intelligence and the cleverness that you were proud of?’’

The pile of letters trembled in my hands. I suddenly left and ran towards the drawing room throwing all the papers in the air.

People run as if death is behind them, but I was running after death itself. I was shivering and sweating from every corner of my mouth. The journey to the drawing-room seemed to me as dangerous as the Siraat Bridge and as long as the Devil’s Eye. Reaching there, I stopped with a shock. For a few moments I stared at the wall as if it was not a wall but the leader of the opposition party. Then I climbed on the sofa and pulled out one of the two rifles decorated on the wall and got down and stood it upright so that its umbilical cord was towards the ceiling. Then took off my slipper and placed my toe on the striker. Took long deep breaths for a few moments, then put my head on the faucet and pressurize the trigger. That’s right. And fired!

I  was very bored on my return from America. The dull atmosphere here could lick my lively personality like a termite. School itself was no less interesting there, then extra activities were something else. I was not only a member of the quiz columns of various magazines, but was also top of the list in pen friendship. Perhaps there is not a single state in America where I do not have some pen pals. Compared to the big states, I was keen to know the conditions in remote towns etc. That is why my friendships had gone to the shores and suburbs of Canada. I devoted almost all of my pocket money and quiz column prize money to that hobby. A hobby is also a very strange thing. For the sake of this excitement, people jump from heights of thousands of feet to reach the deepest depths of the oceans and the boundless expanses of space. Here it was only a matter of a few dollars for postage.

However, I was sad on my return home. It was also difficult to manage my pocket money here, because the relevant magazines did not come here. Apart from sports, I had no serious involvement in physical activities. Mentally, I am a genius, so matters of the heart, body and soul do not come to my attention, or even if they do, I become lazy.

When I got tired of such thoughts and being much bored, I sat down to write a letter to my American friend Tom. And also mentioned this problem to him with salt and pepper. Completed a detailed letter of several pages, wrapped it up, wrote Tom’s address and handed the letter to the servant. He went like wind and came like a breeze. The letter was posted by him. Then I waited for a reply. When there was no reply for two weeks, I pondered over the matter and at that time it came to me a surprising and reprehensible revelation that I was not in America now, but in a country across seven seas. While posting the letter, it was not only mandatory but very important to write some other things like US postal code, etc. in the address, which I completely forgot to do.

I sat down holding my head and repented for the future. Ten rupees for free would have been digested by the postmen. I drowned myself in the depths of the music to escape the shock. After another week passed I received a letter. I was very surprised because I had not given my local address, to anyone in America. There was no chance. My father had everything booked in urgency. Thinking about this, I unclosed the envelope. Inside the envelope was a beautiful paper, a man named Farhad had written to me that due