Everybody gets it once in their life. The Moment.  

It's the time of one's life when things completely change for them. For somebody, they suddenly understand the meaning of their life. For others, they make an equally important discovery.  Sparks of light. Fireflies. Lighting. That's what Eureka Moments bring. 

The Moment differs for everybody - age being an important factor as well. A man in his mid-thirties, yesterday, recognized the aim of his life. A woman today, just before she died, understood the meaning of death. A nine-year-old made the discovery of his life. 

For me, I got my Moment when I was eleven. 
And, boy, was it something worth telling. 
As long as my memory allows me to recall, I remember that my father always used to ask, "My child, what do you want to be?", "My child, what's the aim of your life?", "My child, how do you want to spend you life?" 
My first answer to this question was, "I want to be Ammi, a mom." 
He used to nod, smile, and told me to go on. 
But I never let go of that question. 

I used to ponder on it, think about it as much as I could. But I didn't knew what I wanted to be. Except a mother, because that was the only thing, at that time of my life, which I saw worth becoming. 

Later, my sister fell ill, and we had to go to a hospital. I was scared by that big woman with a pointy needle in her hand as she came close to my sister to inject it. But besides being scared, that woman intimidated me, too. Something about her stood out. My father told me, about the needle, "This is an injection. A medicine. With it's help, your sister will be okay again - that is, of course, if God wills." 

I nodded, and kept staring at the woman as she wrote down notes on her clipboard, and gave my father a list of medicines for my sister. When we were leaving, I tugged at my father's arm and whispered, "Daddy? Who was this woman?" 
My father, then, told me she's a doctor. She finds about illnesses and tries to cure it with the help of God. 

At that moment, I no longer wanted to be a mother.  
I wanted to be a doctor. 

Time passed, like it always does. Tick-tock, tick-tock. 
I bought doctor toy sets, and used my family as patients, wearing my father's white shirt to pretend I'm the doctor from that hospital.  

Tick-tock, tick-tock. 

It was time for me to go to school. I clutched my father's hand tight as we made our way through the alien school, nervous. We went in, and towards my new classroom. A woman was waiting there for me. She had a beautiful face, her eyes shining with care and love and she smiled softly at me. My father took me to her. "Daddy? Who is this woman?" 
He told me, "This is your teacher, my child. A teacher is a respected figure in Islam. She will tell you about things you need to know in order to survive on this planet. She will take care of you." 

The woman, my first teacher ever, extended her hand to me. She smiled. She looked at me kindly.  

I felt safe with her. Slowly, I let go of my father's hand, and clutched hers, still looking at her smiling face. She led me to the classroom, and kept the promise my father made. She took care of me. 

Now, I no longer wanted to be a doctor. 
I wanted to be a teacher. 
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 

I set my soft toys on floor in a line as I wore my mother's silk dupatta, giving each of my 'students' a textbook to read from, pretending to be the teacher from my school. 

Tick-tock, tick-tock. 

I was eleven, at my cousin's house, as I browsed the Internet for the books I wanted to read, but couldn't. Why people don't write and give books for free? Thought I. Don't they care for the ones without money? How should I read books that cost so much? 

There, I sat upset and sad, and thought about my father.

What would he say, if I were him? 

He'd say, If you can't get something, make it yourself. 

And suddenly, I knew the answer to my question.  
If I can't read Harry Potter, I will make my own book and read that. 

I jumped up from my seat and went to my aunt. "Do you have an extra pencil, and a notebook to write on?" I asked her. She gave a positive reply, and fetched me a small white notebook, and a beautiful black pencil. I plopped down on a sofa, and started writing. I wrote and wrote for hours, disappearing in my own world. 

Writing my own Harry Potter. 
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 
I sat in my room, my hand furiously scribbling at the new notebook I got, writing about a vampire and her daughter. 
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 
I was in my mind, living the life of a time-traveler as I wrote about him.  
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 
I fought a huge dragon towering over me, as I tried to get my adventure and quest completed, all by wrapping my fingers around a pencil and moving it to form letters on my paper. 
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 
I met different people, and asked myself, Do I want to be them? 
No, the answer came. I want to write about them. 
Tick-tock, tick-tock. 
Now, after all these years, my father smiles at me and says, "My child, how do you want to spend your life?" 
I say, "Daddy, I want to spend my life with a notebook and a pencil." 
"My child, what is the aim of your life?" 
"Daddy, I want to change the world by my writing." 
He smiles and holds my hand. His eyes twinkle as he asks his last question. "My child, what do you want to be?" 
"Daddy, I want to be an author." 

~~~ 

I want to dedicate this article to my father, who was always there whenever I needed him, and he will always be here whenever I will need him.