On a usual caffeine induced Monday morning, I open Instagram to treat my eyes to pictures of beautiful people posing at beautiful places. I see an absolutely charmed and sun-kissed woman floating through the grand canal of the city of Venice on a gondola wearing a giant summer hat. The water looks bluer than blue and the walled structures whisper centuries’ old enchantments to captivate even the most tired confused human mind. Bohat shukria , Instagram, I’m sinking with thoughts of fleeing to Italy to salvage my poor, unfortunate soul. And now, to express my intent to travel and validate my nomadic existence, you’ll be sure to read #traveler in my bio (truly exciting, it is). 
From the never-ending check-ins on social media to the travel blogs sweeping the internet, travelling has become the folk and spoon on our dinner plates. If not Europe, a touchdown in Bangkok or Istanbul is mandatory on a regular, for the nine-to-five working millennial. The drive to work with the raging traffic of Lahore is long enough to paste a layer of sweat on my nicely done make-up and then, of course what you see out of the car window is doubly harrowing: amputated beggars, out of school children, the homeless and the diseased. We’re dwindling with plagues of pollution, poverty, flies, patriarchy, child-labor, and of course, the establishment; is it really a surprise that I want to get away? I think of these poverty stricken beings and of the limited escape-doors that might be open to them. It is a thought too burdening for me to ponder on and so, I stop. Being sick and tired of this monotonous nonsense, the only way left for me to take is the way to the glorious, most welcoming ( ahem, ahem ) Allama Iqbal International Airport. 
That’s it , I think. I’m going to Italy. With all the information of the places I’d be visiting, the food I’d be eating, the monuments I’d be gracing with photographs; I pucker up, smack my lips with gloss and before I can apply for the visa, I stop to take a selfie (note: the garland filter on snapchat which gives me blue eyes, bhai wah !) The visa process itself is shameful, really. If my ego was not shattered already by society, God knows it’d be non-existent, courtesy of the exclusively customised Visa Policies (for Pakistanis of course). Bhai, bara zaleel kartay hain Visa walay. They make you fill forms with private information and often, with absurd responses which make you question your life as it is (no, I’ve never been involved in dayshatgardi ). Count yourself as enormously blessed if you’ve (read Father or Mother, you’re not there yet!) got a sparky contact who will help you cut through the lines and offer you coffee in the air-conditioned VIP lounge (protocol is the word, yes). Once the application is done ( nafal parhna shuru kero), you’ve got bigger fish to fry. It’s only just started. Betho zara rickshay per!
The bank account is almost empty, courtesy to my minimum wage monthly salary. Shukar karo, yeh bhe mil jata hai! I should have really thought about this before. That’s okay, the mind reasons. Thanks to the Kitty-Party group and Pinkie Auntie for letting me have her turn; my committee is coming out in a few days. That’s one thing off my check-list. Things are taking a realistic form now. I allow myself to fully think about being there while scribing hearts on the note-pad and all. With the sun sinking down, I profess- I’m in a state of war on the inside. I’m raging with ideas of the Western World and its promises: I’d be free to wear whatever I want and I’d have no qualms about walking anywhere alone. There won’t be judgements and the streets would be swelling with hot, A-One kind of fashion. So many chains that I’d have to break, so many questions that I’d have to answer. What do I do now? I take a selfie and update my story on Instagram. It’s important, ladies and lads. It’s important. 
The days that follow are a burden; the boss is being cranky, I’m over-worked, I’m under-accomplished (read: Undervalued), the parents are being difficult, the country is switching Prime-Ministers and Mr.Visa is taking his own sweet time to arrive. Finally, I get a call. This is it, the day will begin again! It is rather harsh, life. My visa application gets rejected. Matlab saari ke saari mehnat paani mein! I feel quite humiliated in the initial hours of the rejection. Now that the money had been sorted and the parents had agreed to let me go (with a group of friends), I’m bound by THE rejection. I feel the pressure slam on my face; ouch, it hurts and I’m all red. echo 
I open my Instagram to escape once again, and there it is- the picture of a beautiful woman riding a gondola with striking colors in the background, smiling to me as if I’m a joke. How cheap , I swear. Such is the work of the Gondola-Effect, sweeping to the East like the American-Dream (before America became great again), budging us down with possible portals of escape and then, with one sudden swish- shutting the door on our face. It is obviously depressing, the state of it all. The feeling of being left behind while others trot away to London, Paris, Rome, Istanbul and Phuket. I’m in an hourglass and I’m being run down by the sand. I wash my hair, shake my head and get on the rickshaw. It’s time to go to the Badshahi Mosque and absorb the spirit of Lahore: its overwhelming history, its cawing crows (at dusk) and its great, grand minarets. I am a traveler, I realize and I will not fail the #traveler. 
And now, I think that it’s a good time to check-in and take a selfie.