If you haven't read the update titled 'Best Days Of My Existence' please do read it before proceeding. This won't make sense otherwise.

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"Hey George Bush, where are you going?"

"Bush, living in the White House still?"

"Hey, aren't you going to invite me to the US? But I don't have a passport, you'd have to make do without it. Surely you can tweak things a bit for me."

"Why did your parents name you 'Bushra'? Did you look as green as a bush when you were born?"

For a major portion of my life, all these lines were used by people to ridicule me. Every person I came across had something to say with regards to my name. All the time they caught sight of me they'd tease me to no end. They'd find joy in provoking me and laugh when I look away.

Having such a name in a non Muslim country where half of them find it difficult to even pronounce it correctly meant being subjugated to mockery most of the time. And I was. I had to bear the brunt of it all only because of my name which they found to be odd.

Needless to say, this lead nowhere but to the growing hatred I had for my name. For years together I hated my name. I hated it with passion. I couldn't see anything special about it or the dense meaning it possessed. All I could see of the name given to me was that it was a blotch to my popularity. An irreparable blotch at that. One I couldn't remove no matter what and it was stuck with me for a lifetime. Or rather I was stuck with it till the end.

The irony was that that my name meant glad tidings or good omen but in actuality, my life was quite the opposite to it taking into consideration what I was facing due to my name. But of what use would it be to complain? I couldn't change my name half way through my life. It was a done deal.

Frustration began pooling in me as days passed by, chipping my inner peace bit by bit but still, I never let anyone know what I felt or how they made me feel. I kept mum suffering in silence.

However, it is known worldwide that adversity is shortly followed by bliss. Spring never fails to follow winter and an incident which occured let me feel it in person how true the statement was.

You are already aware about my days spent at Niswan. The best days of my existence!

Thought it marked a significant phase of my life, the place where I spent the best days of my existence and the thing I love doing the most (sleeping) never got along. We were only given five and a half to six hours everyday to sleep. It never sufficed for a girl like me whose head hit the pillow sharp at nine thirty and who was used to being up by five. Four wasn't an option back then.

Strangely, even though I kept wanting more hours of sleep during my other days spent in Niswan, during my Itikaaf, my most beloved sleep lost its way to me. I couldn't connect with it. Literally!

I remember staying awake the whole night reading Quran or doing dhikr or rummaging the books shelves trying to find something to read. I barely slept for two hours all three days in my Itikaaf.

A total number of six hours of sleep combined for three consecutive days were all I caught followed by an overwhelming sense of establishment. I felt that I had gained control over my sleep. I could now do however I please; whatever I want. I'd no longer be wanting seven hours of sleep like a primary student. My weakness was won over. If only I knew how wrong I was...

Once my Itikaaf got over, we resumed normal schedules. Although the ustaadhas took classes for us, the shiekh in-charge of the place made it a point to conduct classes for us via the intercom twice a week. The students used to huddle close together near the intercom and take down notes diligently.

The 16th of the Arabic month when the fasts got over concluding our Itikaaf, the sheikh got ready to take class for us. We assembled with our notes but due to the way I had gone without sleep for three days, the moment I sat down to listen to the sheikh, it became difficult for me to keep my eyes open. They were drooping with sleep. I had to fight my sleep in order to keep my eyes open but gradually sleep won. I lost. I leaned over the book shelf and started to droop.

A couple of monents would have passed when my ustaadha who was seated nearby caught me redhanded. "Bushraaa", she drawled. "Are you sleeping Bushra?"

Immediately I shot up and sat straight trying to catch up with the rest of the class but it was already too late. The ustaadha had figured out my sleepiness and so when the sheikh asked for a representative to stand close to the intercom to answer his questions, the ustaadha chose me.

Grudgingly, I got up and made my way to the intercom knowing it was more of a punishment than a privilege. I took my place next to the intercom and wished the sheikh. He proceeded to ask me my name and that was it!

When he heard my name, he abruptly stopped with the lecture and started singing the virtues of my name. He even asked me if my father was an alim or hafidh to have chosen it. He went on talking about the specialty of my name, the surahs in which it appears and went on and on until the hour got over.

Only then did I come to know that my name was chosen for me for a reason -- His Will. There was His Wisdom and Blessings behind every happening. My name was chosen for a reason. I was special. So was my name.

I was gifted with a name that sounds timeless and has a great value in the Arabic language; the chosen language in which the Message to the mankind was revealed.

My name was so special that the density of the meaning of my name could be explained for more than over an hour by a learned sheikh!

'Bushra' meaning glad tidings.

But there still remains a mystery unsolved--for whom I've brought glad tidings, I'm yet to figure out!

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