Scholarship Essays for College Admissions

The moonlight hung over Karachi. The air was devoured by spices. Saris were glistening, music was playing, people were laughing, and that’s when I saw them. At the corner table sat a small group of American men in blue and gray suits with luscious red and black ties. As they sipped their cold chai, they marveled at the extravagance of the wedding, talking quietly amongst themselves. I remember wondering what they were saying. Then, the music intensified and the young women began to twirl and gracefully lift their decorated hands toward the sky. They danced as though in a scene from a fairy tale. The beat of the drums moved faster than ever, and the sweet sound of flutes and sitars sharpened. The women had beautiful golden mendhi flower decorations imprinted upon their gentle hands, from their finger tips down their palms, each lotus blossoming out of another. My focus shifted towards them, but only temporarily. I glanced back at the Americans and saw one of them drop his jaw
the same way a hawk catches its prey: quickly. I couldn’t believe it. Why was he shocked? Before that very moment, I had never realized what little familiarity the West had with the East.
When I look back at this event, I see myself as a prisoner enduring life within a dark cell. I had been warped into believing that everyone knew what I knew, and that everyone learned pretty much the same things. I was wrong. The moment I saw that American’s ghostly expression, I felt embarrassed. Why hadn’t I realized that each household held within it its own world? I was the ignorant one.
When I returned to the United States, I flipped through my history textbook searching for answers, looking for a clear sign of the East. Unfortunately, all I found was a small chapter on India’s Mughal rule. Hinduism wasn’t even mentioned, nor was there anything about India’s culture. The words just sat there: They meant nothing. No longer embarrassed, I was now immensely puzzled. I knew from speaking with my grandmother in Pakistan that she had a clear understanding of life in the United States and even knew of its history; she knew Thomas Jefferson had written the Declaration of Independence. I also knew that when my mother was a child in Pakistan, she had been obliged to learn European history. The East most definitely met the West, but did the West ever really meet the East? I recall being lectured on Islam in school. It was truly a ridiculous experience. To a class of thirty fidgeting seventh-graders, our teacher introduced a chapter consumed by wars and mention of few
people, but there wasn’t really anything about what Islam stood for other than that the word meant “peace.” Although our teacher brought in outside sources, I never felt that my fellow students really understood anything aside from a vague history of a man who walked through the desert gathering followers and sitting in caves. Would they remember the name Muhammad? Did these seventh-graders really learn anything? Did they see what I saw?
From their blindness, I learned perspective. I gradually came to accept that everyone develops different views and biases. I still, to this day, wonder what that American thought: What did he see? Could he see the East, the mystical Orient, or was he confined within his own world?