The Journey Within: Part 1

Posted on July 7, 2009
Filed Under Daily, Journey | 25 Comments

The theater was packed and I could hear the cheers of family, friends and strangers.
“Sabrina!!!”

I recognized that voice.

“WOOOOO!!!”

From behind the long, black velvet curtains, I could see the emcee. She took the microphone, and began reading the cue cards in her hand. I strained to listen to my introduction. I scanned the crowd for familiar faces, but the theater was black from the lights illuminating the stage.

“Don’t go until she announces your name,” a man’s voice from behind me whispered.
I turned my head and nodded.

I coached myself through the final instructions I had been given.

Smile when you first come out, and keep your head up.
Keep your hands on your hips.
Take big steps and make sure you stop in the center of the stage.

“Please welcome our next contestant!” the emcee shouted. “Sabrina Enayatulla!”

“Go ahead,” the man behind me said.

I walked out to the roar of the people, hands on hips, head up, eyes fixed on the crowd, and a smile on my face.

Four, five, six, seven, stop.

I turned my back to the audience, and molded my body into the starting position that I would hold until the deejay started the music. I felt the spotlight narrow in around my body and the rest of the stage went dark.

This was the 2001 Miss India DC Pageant, and I was about to preform in front of a packed Lincoln Theater.

***

I had just started my freshman year in college, and the first time I had been home since the semester started two months ago was for the pageant. My older sister, Uzma won the pageant last year, and our best friend from childhood, Juhi had won it the year before. Both women even went on to the Miss India USA pageant — Juhi brought home the title of Miss India USA First Runner Up after the national pageant in New York, and the following year Uzma followed in her footsteps, also bringing home the First Runner Up sash after her pageant in New Jersey. It was a pretty big deal for our families considering both ladies competed against some really beautiful and talented women from all over the country.

While my sister, and pseudo-sister competed for their crowns, I modeled clothes and accessories for local fashion designers showcasing their collections at the pageant.
I guess you could say that Uzma and Juhi were like Jessica Simpson, and I was kind of like Ashlee.
During intermission, the designers got center stage, and we came out one by one, like little Indian Barbies in pink platform shoes.

But this year, it was my turn to compete for that crown. I hadn’t really thought about winning, though I was heavy favorite going into this year’s competition. Dozens of my family members and friends came to watch me compete, and some of my family even drove down from other states.

Aside from pageant basics, like walking and smiling, and getting the right dress, the two most critical elements of the pageant were the talent portion, and the question from the judges. Lucky for me (and Uzma) we had Juhi to choreograph our dance for the talent part of every pageant.

And let me tell you, THIS.GIRL.CAN.DANCE.

Juhi has been learning classical Bharatanatyam dance, which originated in India, since she was a little girl. But with the influence of Bollywood, mixed with her own God-given talents, Juhi has been creating technically perfect pieces with heart-pumping flare since I’ve known her. Watching her dance could easily be compared to experiencing a deeply humbling spiritual moment. It’s like the air catches fire with her every movement, and if you got the chance to watch her on stage, in an element which she has so rightfully earned as her own, you would literally be left breathless.

I was pretty lucky to have her in my corner to say the least.

The summer before I moved to Virginia Beach to attend college, we would practice for hours in Juhi’s basement, or in our living room. Our moms would chat over tea, while Juhi and Uzma made me dance until beads of sweat decorated my hairline, like the string of jewels that adorned the wig atop Cleopatra’s shaved head. The girls would contort my body, and Juhi would mend my hands to ensure they were telling the right story — one that was in accordance with the art of Bharatanatyam movement. I’d moan and groan, and tell them I was tired and hungry. If that didn’t work, I’d pretend my body was made of jelly, and collapse into their arms as they tried to hold me up.

“Sabrina!” they would both shout in unison. “Pay Attention!”
They’d drop me to the floor and we’d all burst into laughter. A few hours later, our moms would join us to applaud and critique. We worked the hardest on enunciating the words to the song I was going to dance to. It was a song in Hindi, and it was about a bumble bee. Our moms would fill me in on words I didn’t know, explaining to me what the song meant so I would dance with more passion.

After I moved away to college, I had two months left to practice, but it was more than a little embarrassing living with a new person whom you had to tell that you were practicing a dance for your Indian beauty pageant.
I mean, could I have been any more lame?
But my roommate, Jen was awesome about it.
I tried to practice mostly while she wasn’t there, listening to the song over and over again, and shimmying across our dorm room.

I didn’t practice at school as much as I should have, and just before I walked on stage, I felt my nerves for the first time.

***

I felt the spotlight narrow in around my body, and the chatter in the crowd suddenly died.

And then, the first drum beat.

I tapped my foot and nodded my head.
Two, three, four, turn.

The beat of the music pounded in my chest, sending and injection of adrenaline rushing through my veins. The music consumed me, and I danced. I had never felt anything more exhilarating in my life, I thought — it was as if this was the sole purpose I had been created.
I didn’t want the song to end, I didn’t want the dance to end, I just wanted to live in this moment forever.

I ended up leaving that night as Miss India D.C. First Runner Up. I think my dad was the most proud, meeting me at the bottom of the stage after I got my sash and flowers.
“I didn’t know you had that in you!” he gushed, as he smothered me and my sister in hugs and kisses.

A group of our family and friends went back to my mom’s place to celebrate, relax and enjoy each other’s company. We stayed up most of the night, sitting in the living room laughing, talking and slapping gobs of Vaseline on my face, trying to take off all my makeup.

Because the winner of the pageant was from Maryland, the organizers invited me to represent Virginia at the Miss India USA Pageant which was going to be held in California later that year. But after much thought, I ultimately decided not to go. I had just started school, and I wanted to get my feet wet, socially and academically. If I committed to competing in the national pageant, I’d have to make that four-hour drive home every weekend to rehearse, and then take two weeks off of classes to travel and prepare. It would have cost thousands of dollars for all of us to travel together, and in my mind it was sort of a one-and-done deal. I did the pageant, I had fun, and now it was time to move on. Everyone was really supportive of my decision, and that pretty much marked the end our pageant days as “The Brat Pack” — a name that Uzma, Juhi and I had been given in high school by a group of guys as an insult, but one we totally embraced and ran with.

And now we all have matching tattoos.
No, we don’t really.

Though our moms were really excited to see all of us do so well, the overworked and under slept women that birthed us finally hung up their “Pageant Mom” titles forever.

***
I shook my head and my thoughts came back to where I was — sitting on my prayer rug, legs folded beneath me, my hands still held in the air with my palms facing up. I was asking God for something, but forgot what is was.
It was 2005 now, and a lot had changed since those days on stage, though the memories were fresh – so fresh that they were interrupting me in prayer.

“Was that wrong?” I asked in a soft whisper.

I often “talked” to God about my thoughts and feelings (not that He didn’t already know them) even before I asked for anything. I lowered my hands to my lap, and my shoulders hunched forward.

“I mean, I get that it’s kind of wrong, right? Right. No, you’re right. I know it’s wrong. Muslim women are not supposed to be dancing like that on a stage in front of hundreds of people, let alone be doing beauty pageants and fashion shows. But it’s not like there was a swimsuit competition.”

I let out a deep sigh.

“Please forgive me, God. I know, it’s not sincere, but I’m trying. Please help me to understand why it was wrong because that was the most exhilarating feeling I’ve ever felt in my whole life and in heaven I totally want to do that again. Please guide me, help me, forgive me, Amen.”

I had recently come to a point in my life where prayer became the most valuable of God’s commandments to me. I jotted down the prayer times in my student planner, and in my notebooks, making sure I would always be able to fulfill this particular duty. But still, moments like these happened to me way too often. I’d spend my entire prayer thinking about what I’d ask God for instead of concentrating on each unit of prayer. Then the moment I raised my hands in supplication, my mind would wander. Instead of asking for forgiveness for all the things I did that were wrong, I would spend the next 10 minutes with a smile on my face, remembering the wonderful feelings of all the wrong things I did.
Something was seriously wrong with me.

It was my senior year in college, and I was living with two of my best friends in an apartment less than six miles from the ocean. A lot happened during the first three years of school, and getting an apartment felt like I was given a refuge to do the self-exploration I so very badly needed. But the idea of repentance was one that I wasn’t too familiar with. I always thought if a person changed their ways — well, that was pretty much the same thing. After all, a change in one’s behavior is admittance in itself that your previous actions could have been viewed as morally questionable, therefore conveying a silent apology to yourself, and the Power that Is.

This particular day, my roommates were at soccer practice so I was home alone.  I got up from my my prayer mat, folded it, tossed it into my closet and went over to my computer to see who was on line. For the past two years there was always one name I looked forward to seeing on my Buddy List. When that name was bold, great conversations ensued, and today, that name was there.
I felt a little giddy inside, as I moused over the name to see how long they had been online. Only two minutes.
I double clicked to send a message, but then closed the box.

Don’t look like a stalker.
But you’re friends.
But he’s been online for like two minutes. It looks like you have him on alert.
But I don’t.
But it looks like you do.
Oh who cares, it’s not like we’re not friends.
Oh my God, you’re actually having an argument with yourself right now.

Suddenly, a window popped up on my computer screen.

“Yo”

Ew, you are so cute.

“Hey,” I responded, as I smiled to myself.

Thanks, God!
I was hoping for that one.

***

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