Note: Written a couple of weeks before graduation. Little did i know then I will be working at P&G for a fat pay cheque

Its quite stunning, the first time you lay eyes on it. The gates inspired from the Khyber pass, a testament to its heritage and geography. The grand imposing architecture bathed in white wash and sunlight.  Cradled at the foot of the hills, it sits quietly and idly far from the any major city or metropolis. The closest being Islamabad, a 100km away. Flowers blooming all along the roads, bushes and tree's pruned and trimmed to fit aesthetics. Young men and women scurrying around with books and bags, there's a gentle buzz of life about it. Its love at first sight.
Fresh from high school, filled with idealistic ideas about everything, the world is your oyster shell. Engineering being your chosen future; by choice or fate. Abandoned in the middle of nowhere, you are left to fend for yourself. Our rite into manhood. Officially and for all practical purposes, you're an adult. You make your decisions and bear the consequences. The parents, however still lurk in the background in case things spiral out of hand and onto impending doom.
Four years on and almost everything has changed. No longer the timid insecure teenager, your ego bloated to the point of bursting. Year after year of teachers hammering you with the fact that you're amongst the crème of the country, your heads up in the clouds. The best of the best resonates in the empty skull. Expectations for jobs and living the Paki Dream after graduation is through the roof.
'I expect at least a starting of 50K on my first job' say's NAB, a friend of mine. 'I didn't work so hard for my grades so I could end up at mediocre, low paying job'.  He spits out these words with angst and disgust. We're sitting in my room, a few weeks to graduation. Time is all we have.
Sitting by the window still, on the cold hard floor, I light up a cigarette, 'Our parents did spend a fortune on our education here, but I still don't feel like an engineer. You'd expect better by now, but then I never did want to be one'. I watch as the smoke billows and swirls. It seems to take on a life of its own in the lamplight. I open the window, not wanting to have causing cancer to add to my list of sins.
'But what other choice did we have? Its either engineering or medical. There's no place in this society for bohemians'. Wad speaks from the corner of my bed, eyeing the paintings hanging on the wall. He comes forward, the light falling on his face. The years have taken their toll.
'Bachelors in Business Management' screams Cain as he leaps to his feet from the chair. 'Why didn't we take business courses in our college and spared ourselves all the calculus and physics of engineering?'
'Because I at least have self respect' I say in a firm tone from the window, gazing outside at the silhouettes of wild boars scavenging through the garbage, an occasional snort or grunt giving them away.
'I don't know about you guys, but I will never work a day in this country. I am flying back to Saudi as soon as I graduate' says Furious. Ironically, inspite of his name, he's a quite timid. Born and raised in Saudi to expat parents. I never quite got the story of his journey from the oil fields of Riyadh to the wheat fields of Swabi.
'Oh come on guys what are we so depressed about!' shouts an enthusiastic Grayman, trying to waver off the glum of the room. 'We're graduating from one of the best engineering schools in the country, spent our time here learning to deal with pressure and hard hard times. I'll put my money on the fact that a few years from now, we'll all be in working in good places, as managers of some department or another. You'll have a heavy pay cheque to put in the pocket, a house, a car and hopefully a beautiful wife and family. That's the Paki Dream my friend. Get busy living it!'
'That's why all these multinationals come here to whisk us off, we'r less human and more number crunching analysts conditioned to deal with the worst they can throw at us by the time "They" are through with us' continues Grayman, making a gesture at the omnipresent faculty. 'We are worth more than we give ourselves credit for'.
Silence descends upon the room as everyone shuffles through their list of friends, long graduated who now work for some big name corporation or snapped a scholarship or admission into Ivy League or a little less. Those lucky enough do go places.
John Lennon's 'Imagine' shuffles up the playlist. The rooms dissolved with the voice of a hippie singing about utopia. The next subject is inevitable.
'700 people dead in Buner according to the latest headlines' wince's Wad. 'Its like the Americans carpet bombing the holy mother out of Afghanistan! It's unbelievable how the government can get away with killing its own people!' He throws punches in the empty space, hoping to hit something or someone in frustration.
'It's a mere 20Km from where we're sitting right now' I say in a matter of fact voice, like reading from a script.  'Start growing your beards my friends, we'll soon be required by law or risk getting whipped'. I grin at the picture of women clad in burqas and men with beards to the chest walking around campus. So much for the budding college romances on campus.
'Its genocide, open genocide the things we're doing to those poor people, killing innocent women and children. What kind of justice is this?' says Grayman, his head hanging low. 'Its almost like Bangladesh all over again, only this time its all right at our doorstep. But we're too scared to renounce it. Where is the national spirit that was there after the 8th oct earthquakes!'.
'Renounce it?!' shouts NAB, filled with a new zest. 'Those people deserve to die, they have already taken control of Karachi, and they're terrorists and deserve to die'. NAB gives me an uneasy look. I don't take notice.
'Well to say the least, I don't think the president or anyone else important from the government circle is going to be coming for our convocation' says Furious trying to ease the tension.
NAB's remarks remind me of a recent mail war plaguing the inbox of every student these days. It's a time honored tradition, heated exchange of emails over the local server on some subject near the finals. This year it's different. It's not about some mundane society/student affair. This year its open war between the ethnic Pasthun populace and the rest of the campus, mainly those hailing from Punjab. The mails are quite spiteful. Each race trying to win one over the other in historical or political context sparked by the current events in the countries North region. An ethnic Pasthun myself, I have kept my head above the water. This one mail however did catch my eye. I paraphrase; you are guests in our land, so don't over stay your welcome. It's surprising how people from educated families can fall into those old prejudices. But they're so deeply engraved in our heads that they're bound to come up sooner or later. 50 years the government has spent trying to bring us together as a nation. Maybe it's time they realize that diversity isn't the antichrist of our country.
Such subjects never make for easy conversation. We all shift weight and twitch. Its uneasy to talk of such things without emotions overflowing and heat generated.
'I hear some students are collecting relief goods for the displaced people from the region, i am going to give away the blankets and warm clothes' Says Grayman in a quiet tone as he gets up to leave. 'I don't have much use for them back in Karachi'.
None of us wants to have to choose a side.