Becoming The
First Horizon

A. R. Amin

Daastan Publishing 2025

First Published in Pakistan by Daastan PVT LTD

House # A-41, Madni Street, Lala Rukh, Wah Cantt, Punjab 47040

www.daastan.com

www.meraqissa.com

Text copyrights © Roohi Amin

Book Design Copyright © Roohi Amin

The moral rights of the writer, illustrator, and editor have been asserted.

All rights reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN 978-627-526-050-9 (Print)
ISBN 978-627-526-051-6 (Ebook)

To my Maa, who became shelter before the world became known;
To my Baba, who built the ground beneath my courage;
To Asad, in whose world I was not a flower to guard, but a comrade to stride with;
And to Dr. Amir Muhammad, the lantern-soul whose wisdom charted my horizon.

This book is not written for you: it exists because of you……...

Preface

This book was not born from a single journey; it grew out of countless trials, rejections, and last-minute decisions that once felt like detours but turned out to be directions. Every delay, every uncertainty, every closed door was, in truth, a quiet redirection toward something better. I learned that sometimes, what feels like an ending is simply Allah’s way of guiding us to the place written for us all along.

What began as a passage across continents became far greater than movement on a map, it became a tracing of the unseen thresholds between who we are and who we are meant to become. Behind every step lay a story of resilience: funds delayed, plans reshaped, expectations surrendered. Yet through every challenge, there was grace, a gentle reminder that divine plans unfold with a wisdom far beyond our understanding.

Each chapter carries the breath of discovery, the hush of solitude, and the flicker of wonder that turns foreign skies into mirrors of faith and self. This is not a story of travel, but of transformation: a record of how motion reshapes meaning, and how surrender reveals purpose.

For every soul standing at the edge of uncertainty, may these pages remind you: even the hardest paths can lead home, and what you lose in waiting, Allah often replaces with what your heart was truly meant to find.

Table of Contents

Preface. 2

Chapter 01: Where the Sky First Opened. 4

Chapter 02: Finding my Feet in a Foreign Land. 10

Chapter 03: The Quiet Geometry of Change. 15

Chapter 04: Somewhere Between Arrival and Rootedness. 21

Chapter 05: The Architecture of Small Mercies. 26

Chapter 06: Echoes of Autumn in the City. 33

Chapter 07: Currents of Routine and Ripples of Wonder. 39

Chapter 08: In the Quiet Forge of Winter, Her Edges Turned into Wings. 48

Chapter 09: The World Slowed Down Before It Bloomed into Water. 57

Chapter 10: The Quiet Weight of Winter and the Murmurs of Becoming. 61

Chapter 11: The Cartography of Wander. 67

Chapter 12: Where Endings Learn to Breathe. 82

The Art of Becoming: What the Journey Did Not Say Out Loud. 85

Chapter 01: Where the Sky First Opened

It began with uncertainty. When I applied for third-party funding for my exchange, alongside classmates whose dreams mirrored my own, I did not expect to be the only one left behind. Despite being at the top among all applicants, my application alone was canceled, a quiet undoing of plans I had stitched with hope. For days, I stood at the edge of doubt, unsure whether the journey I had envisioned would ever take flight. And then, as if written in a script I could not yet read, a message arrived accepted from a European funding source I had scarcely dared to expect. One door closed, another opened, and every step since then whispered a single truth: Allah’s plans arrive not when we demand them, but precisely when our hearts are ready. Even when my scholarship was smaller, and accommodation uncertain, He carved paths where none existed, reminding me that provision is not always in plenty, but in perfect timing.

The morning of September 29th, 2023, did not simply arrive. It unfolded, soft and deliberate, like a curtain lifting from a stage that had long awaited its performance, the air itself holding its breath for what was to come. The air itself seemed to stretch its limbs awake, yawning softly across the room before spilling outward, moving through streets, into neighborhoods, brushing windows, and trailing along the eaves of familiar houses. There was a stillness in the air that did not belong to ordinary mornings, a kind of hush that anticipates transformation. Somewhere deep beneath the familiar rhythm of routine, something in my soul already knew that the world I had always known was quietly fading into the distance, making room for a horizon I had not touched yet, a horizon layered in light and the silent whispers of possibility.

It was Friday, the 12th of Rabi-ul-Awal, a day already scented with spiritual memory and sacredness, now layered with something entirely personal. Even the walls of my home leaned toward me, offering their own quiet blessings. I could feel it with every breath, as if the air carried both the weight of farewell and the shimmer of anticipation simultaneously. The light from the windows pooled in warm puddles on the floor, touching every corner with unspoken farewell, and I moved within it with unusual awareness. I was no longer preparing for a trip. I was preparing to step into another version of myself, one that had been waiting patiently for these days of distance and discovery.

After prayers with my family, each ritualistic movement seemed heavier with meaning. Hands folding, voices rising and falling in familiar tones, steps moving rhythmically across the floor: each motion was an echo of years, of memory, now transformed into a last act of closeness. I moved through the house with a strange awareness. Every object, every voice, every corner felt as if it had softened into memory even before I had left doors that creaked slightly as they always had, chairs that held the shape of countless afternoons, photographs that seemed to smile knowingly. I chose our traditional Channa Mewa rice for lunch, not because I wanted merely a meal, but because I wanted closure through flavor. I savored it slowly; every spoonful etched into an invisible archive of home, each nut and grain carrying not just taste, but the soft textures of mornings, afternoons, and nights that had shaped me. I knew I would spend months ahead craving not only the taste but everything it symbolized: warmth, continuity, belonging, and the faint echo of laughter drifting from the kitchen of my childhood.

When it came time to leave, the sunlight outside shimmered over the car roof like a quiet blessing, scattering itself in splinters of gold and amber across the streets. My aunt stepped out of her house, her eyes glistening with unspoken prayer, and the world seemed to pause, breathing in tandem with hers. Sheltered me tightly, with the kind of embrace that does not simply say goodbye; it shelters you once more before letting you go, leaving an imprint not on skin, but on the chest, where the heart registers and stores such weightless treasures. I carried that warmth with me like a shield, a small armor made of love and tenderness, as we drove through the streets, I had known all my life yet was now leaving behind.

The airport felt like a shifting landscape of movement and noise, a theater of human ambition and ritual, simultaneously chaotic and precise. Check-in desks hummed under fluorescent light, belts spooled luggage in endless loops, digital screens flashed a barrage of information in colors that seemed both urgent and irrelevant. Long waiting lines sneaked through the halls, people brushing past each other without stories intersecting, yet somehow sharing the pulse of anticipation. Strangers jostled gently, their elbows colliding in a silent dance of impatience and restraint. Yet inside, I was overwhelmed. I was aware of the invisible moment I was crossing, the threshold between the familiar and the unknown, and it felt luminous in its subtlety. My family said their last words with their eyes more than with their speech, a language older than any I had spoken before. When I walked past the gate and the distance between us became sealed by glass and structure, a strange clarity filled me. I was alone, but not lonely, carried forward by invisible threads stitched from love and memory.

At the boarding area, I noticed a girl twisting the edge of her boarding pass nervously, her hands trembling slightly as though the paper itself was a fragile talisman against uncertainty. Her lips quivered with a quiet panic that seemed too intimate for a public space. For a moment, I wondered if I was supposed to feel the same way. After all, this was my first flight, my first time in the sky. But instead of fear, I felt calm, as though my body knew the way before my mind had caught up. Perhaps some journeys are rehearsed in the soul before they ever touch the body. Perhaps some departures are less about leaving and more about arriving inwardly.

When my seat turned out to be in the very first row, a sudden happy disbelief fluttered through me. The cushion felt too big for my smallness, the seatbelt buckled heavier than expected, the tiny tray table suddenly a miniature stage of its own. As the aircraft lifted from the runway and the ground dissolved into miniature geometry beneath the window, I felt something loosen in me, something that had long waited for release. Except for the pressure nudging at my ears, the journey was unexpectedly gentle. It felt less like transportation and more like transcendence, as though the cabin itself were a vessel floating through layers of thought, memory, and anticipation. I watched the cities below shrink into patterns that resembled maps of dreams rather than reality, and for the first time, the idea of movement did not feel exhausting but restorative.

Two hours later, Karachi greeted me with heavy warmth, a sudden noise, and a sense of arrival that felt like a pulse rather than a place. A porter helped carry my bags, which to anyone watching must have looked like I was migrating entire pieces of my life, not just belongings, each step weighted with intention and remembrance. Outside the terminal, I spotted my paternal cousin, Mr. Timely (who appeared when it mattered the most), waving with easy familiarity despite us never having met properly before. There is something remarkable about family, the way blood recognizes before memory does, how gestures arrive quicker than sentences. He welcomed me like someone long-awaited, folding the city around me in layers of ease.

His family received me with warmth the way distant relatives sometimes do, with curiosity first, affection soon after. His children were adorably confused: “She is your cousin? Really?” I later overheard them whispering to their mother, “Dad brought a girl home, go ask who she is!” It became our first shared laughter over dinner, light and untethered, clearing the weight of unfamiliarity instantly. He even gave me his room to sleep in so I could be comfortable, a small gesture that carried monumental kindness. That night, his wife and I stayed up talking until almost three in the morning, the kind of conversation that bridges distances so swiftly that you forget you were strangers only hours earlier. Words, stories, and laughter flowed like water filling a vessel that had been empty for too long. Tiny gestures sometimes hold the weight of enormous grace.

The morning after felt like an extension of that hospitality, sunlight stretching along every surface, touching walls and utensils with the soft approval of early hours. His wife made breakfast and treated me as though I had returned from a long journey instead of beginning one, layering the mundane with extraordinary warmth. Later that night, I was taken out for pizza and fresh juices, and before dropping me at the airport, they packed snacks for me lovingly, as though I was their own daughter traveling far from home. Past midnight, we drove through the silver-lit stillness of Karachi’s sleeping roads. The airport was quiet, almost reverent, as though it knew the gravity of each departure. My flight was delayed, so I waited while exhaustion slowly dissolved into sleep in the lounge chair, cradled by the hum of the airport.

The stay lasted less than a full day, yet it left behind a warmth that stretched further than its hours. Sometimes it is not the length of time that imprints on us, but the softness with which it holds us. Every smile, every gesture, every quiet conversation seemed to extend beyond physical proximity, embedding itself in the corners of memory, waiting to be recalled when homesickness whispered in moments of loneliness.

The next flight carried me through a sunrise that painted the sky in colors that felt almost unreal. Pink and gold bled into each other like ink in water, the clouds forming patterns that made no sense and yet seemed entirely purposeful. Istanbul emerged like a gateway between worlds, its sprawling skyline both unfamiliar and magnetic, a city alive with a thousand stories. The journey stretched longer due to harsh weather, but the view of clouds layered like oceans turned time into something almost sacred. The only difficult part was dragging my seven-kilogram hand-carry, packed to the brim with food, utensils, and small treasures from home, heavy with intention. It had no wheels, and in a tired moment I thought of abandoning it, leaving the burden behind like a petulant child. But I kept pulling it behind me, stubborn and determined, the way a mother tugs her unwilling child past a toy shop, determined, and resigned all at once.

There was another delay before the next departure. I found a space near the prayer area, rested my eyes for a while, and let the silence wash over me. When it was finally time to board, I stepped onto the Salzburg flight and sat next to an Egyptian traveler whose friendliness eased the silence, filling the small cabin with warmth and shared conversation. When the halal meal menu arrived, the foreign words felt like puzzles without clues, so I simply copied his choice. The dish turned out to be fish bread, unexpected yet fitting for a journey of newness.

Salzburg looked like a still frame from a painting as we landed. In the arrivals area, I spotted a man holding my name on a card, a small rectangle of paper with my identity printed upon it, yet carrying the weight of certainty in a sea of unknowns. It was Mr. Safeguard (the quiet protector whose presence turned uncertainty into safety), arranged by Dr. NorthStar (the unwavering guide whose light charted the course of becoming), my mentor and the reason for this path had been possible at all. The drive to Innsbruck lasted two hours, threading through valleys and mountain silhouettes that looked like ancient guardians folded into the landscape, their snow-capped tips puncturing the clouds like sentinels. His conversation made the road feel shorter, weaving reassurance into every corner, every turn. By the time we reached the city, I felt looked after in a way that carried reassurance rather than formality.

He had booked a hotel for me for the night, but I chose to be transparent. My family trusted me completely, and I wanted to begin my time abroad with clarity in every decision. I asked him instead to drop me at the apartment arranged for me as per the commitment. He canceled the booking without hesitation and left me there around 11 p.m. The room was warm, simple, and perfect. Automatic heating wrapped the air, the balcony waited in silence, and the refrigerator hummed softly as if keeping me company. Wrapped in my fur coat, I fell asleep instantly, sinking into the newness of a foreign night, a cocoon of anticipation, fatigue, and quiet contentment.

In those first forty-eight hours, I witnessed the truth of a saying I had heard all my life: God truly eases the path for those who move forward with intention. My fellows had secured accommodation long in advance and still struggled with bureaucracy and unforeseen delays. Yet here I was, arriving at the last moment without certainty and still finding myself sheltered in one of the city’s best neighborhoods. It felt less like coincidence and more like providence, as if the world itself bent gently toward those who dared to step forward with hope and preparation, the edges of reality softening into possibility.

Chapter 02: Finding my Feet in a Foreign Land

The next morning unfurled gently, like a soft curtain of light that was still learning how to belong to me and how I should belong to it. A pale glow slipped through the window and rested on the floorboards like a quiet introduction to a new rhyme of life. The faint sound of trams drifted into my room, chiming softly in the stillness, and for a moment I simply stood there, breathing in air that felt cleaner, sharper, almost holy in its stillness. The coldness had a way of reminding me that I was far away from every familiar boundary. Far from tea steaming in a steel kettle, from slippers scuffing across a known hallway, from my mother’s early morning footsteps. The Alps stood somewhere behind the skyline like a silent witness to my arrival, and I could feel their presence even when I was not looking at them.

Today’s lecture was on Process Simulation, a subject that existed in my ambitions long before Europe ever existed in my passport. I left early, stepping into a street that was still half dreaming, half awake. Shops had not yet begun to speak. Windows still wore the hush of dawn. The walk to the campus was long, forty minutes, but it never once felt like a burden. It felt like I was being allowed to walk through a prologue, a slow initiation into another life. I observed more than I was moved. The cobblestones carried the memory of footsteps from years I had not lived. The tram rails shimmered faintly. Even the sky felt like it had a different accent.

I reached before the building had fully awakened. Morning sunlight seeped through glass panes that stretched high and clean, washing the corridor in a gentle pale light. I waited for Mr. Wayfinder (the companion who helped me find directions in a completely unknown world), who had promised to bring Ms. Tempest (a force for me that always assessed but was still unsettled) and Mr. Side Walker (my very compatible travel buddy) along. I checked the entrance every few seconds as if companionship could be summoned just by attention. When the time reached 8:50 in the morning and the door still did not open, I understood something quietly. You cannot hurry. I walked inside, alone, yet not lonely.

A few minutes later, the door opened and all three of them entered together, theatrically, right behind the course instructor. The class began with an assessment quiz. I did not attempt it since I had to leave early for course enrollment, and it felt strikingly symbolic that I was skipping a quiz to fill paperwork for the future. It was ungraded and unimportant. Life had already given me exams no classroom could design.