I visited Pakistan after almost four years, the longest I’ve
stayed away from home before home. I had been feeling the itch for a year
leading up to it. How foolish was I for waiting this long. As per my blog bio,
sharing is caring and I’m inviting you on this journey which managed to shake me to my core in just two short weeks.
Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam
I get to the airport three hours before my
flight for some good ol’ duty free shopping. When I reach my gate, I am
upgraded to business class. I’m ecstatic as I am feeling a little sorry for
myself because I have the flu. In my fragile state, this moment of kindness makes me want
to hug the airport staff giving me the news but that would be far from
appropriate and definitely weird. The flight goes well until we have an hour’s
delay. Dubai’s too foggy and the runway’s too crowded for us to land. I’m worried I’ll miss my connecting flight to
Karachi but I’m assured the next flight will be postponed. Fortunately, it is.
Dubai International Airport
I find a Starbucks and grab some coffee. It tastes
like shite. I pretend it doesn’t. I walk down to my gate and I’m thrown right into
some less than desirable Pakistani ways. The men stare too much. The concept of
forming lines doesn’t exist. The airport staff scold some and remind them of
the rules. We board at last. People sit in each other’s seats. We have an hour
and a half’s delay. Damn fog! Some of the men think it’s acceptable to summon stewardesses
for water every 5 mins. When it’s time to land, people start unbuckling their
belts and standing up while the plane’s still moving on the runway. A steward and stewardess scold them.
Jinnah International Airport, Karachi
I make my way to the “Ladies and Children” line
at border control thinking it’ll move faster. Nice try Naveen. Men filter in
from the haphazard lines around us, making waiting time MUCH longer. A lady in
a veil braves the situation, confronts the men and strides to the front of the
line to complain. The officials tell her she’s welcome to do the same and break
the line ahead of the men. I feel
out of my element and don’t dare to be vocal myself. While waiting, I make
conversation with a Pakistani woman who looks like she’s my age. She asks me
the eternally favorite question of Pakistanis - “Are you married?”. I cheekily
tell her I’m dodging the married life. She doesn't seem impressed. An hour later I’m finally past baggage
claim and out of the airport. I am blinded by the natural sunlight as I exit. I
hope my aunt has spotted me! She has. I walk through a bed of rose petals.
Someone important must have arrived just before me. The security guard scolds
someone in the crowd for littering. The driver carries my suitcase for me and
when we get to the apartment, the building watchman does. Finally, someone to
help me with my bags!
The House
It’s familiar and gloriously
colourful, full of artefacts my aunt has collected from her travels around the
world. It’s pristine and clean. I don’t need to ask but I know she’s spent all
of yesterday preparing for my arrival. She is after all the perfect host and an
aunt who spoils to no limits. It’s NYE but as I haven’t slept at all flying in I can
barely keep my eyes open. I pass out shortly after 11pm and sleep through NYE
celebrations which incidentally include a lot of firing in the air: Karachi’s
version of fireworks. Before I do I lather myself with anti-mosquito repellent.
Dengue is prevalent and with my rubbish immune system I’m not prepared to take
any risks. I sleep like a baby and wake up shortly before 8am to the shrill
honk of a truck.
The
Mall
I recognize a lot of Western
brands. The floors are shiny. I’m actually worried I might slip. All of Karachi’s popuation seems to have
found its way here. The late Junaid Jamshed’s clothing store is still open for business. As a
Pakistani who listened to his music as a child, I feel sad walking past it. His
current, more sober music plays in other parts of the mall. I wonder if he was celebrated as much when he lived. I look around and notice extravagantly dressed women and children. A little boy’s actually wearing a suit. Some people are taking
selfies and pictures inside shops. I think to myself that they must be tourists from
neighboring cities. Their excitement is sweet to watch. The price tags in some
of the high end stores have magical powers. They make my heart jump a
little. Then again perhaps I’m still expecting to pay what I spent on the same
thing 20+ years ago when I left Pakistan.
Driving
Clearly a four-lane road is just
a mild suggestion as there are at least seven lanes at any given time. The cars
are honking continuously. I manage to tune some out; others are aggressive and almost
manufactured to bully other drivers out of their way. I am impressed and relieved to witness no accidents. Every
car knows exactly when to brake – 1mm away from the other car – no more, no
less. My lengthy and expensive driving lessons in the West will do me
absolutely no good in Karachi but then again I’m not sure what Algebra and
Geometry have done for my adult life either.
Visitors
and Visits
Neighbors, family friends and
relatives come in and out of the house. There is never a dull moment. Meeting
elders who life is ageing much too fast is always accompanied with excellent food, warm
hugs, nostalgia, well wishes and genuine interest in family abroad. Their
memories and respect for our shared history makes the meets and greets
priceless. It becomes more evident to me than ever before that their kindness
has nothing to do with me. I haven’t earned it. It is credit to my family and
especially my late grandmother whose goodwill I am being rewarded with.
My
Aunt
She’s my only aunt and therefore
never had to compete with another aunt or uncle for my affection, yet, even if
she had to, she would have outshone everyone. She taught me to love a sibling’s
children as my own. Her hospitality is indescribable and I won’t attempt to put
it in words, except that she puts the world before her. I wish that she would
learn to give herself even half the importance.
My
Cousin
She runs a home. She has two beautiful
children. She manages everything, wearing the boss cap elegantly, smiling
through the challenging periods. I have learned a lot about her on this trip.
She makes me proud.
Nani’s Bedroom
I can never stay in her bedroom
for more than a few minutes. It has too many memories. I can feel her presence
in the room. It’s the room I spent many joyous periods of my childhood in. It’s
where we shared a bed during weekend sleepovers. It’s where I wished her
goodbye six years ago and her last words to me were “visit again”. Two weeks
later, I did. There were no more conversations to be had. A part of my being
died with her forever, leaving an empty shell of a person who will forever feel
her loss.
Visiting
Nani
I am surprised to feel numb as I gently sprinkle fresh rose petals over the grave, walking carefully around
so as not to step on it, saying prayers for her. Then, completely out of
nowhere and without warning, my heart gives way and warm tears blur my vision.
The tissue I have brought along just “in case” has transformed itself into drenched,
crumpled shreds in my hands. I am reminded that I have four years of suppressed
emotions and that my grandmother was, as per the silver picture frame I once gifted
her with our picture inside, “my best friend, my well wisher, my happiness, my pride, my life”.
The
Last Supper
I leave the house for a few hours
and return to the aroma of my favorite dishes. My aunt has cooked a feast. I
gush with excitement over the four curries she brings over to the table. The
smile on her face proves to me that she really does get immense joy from
giving.
The
Front Door
As I make one last visit to my
late grandmother’s bedroom to wish it goodbye and step out of the house with a
heavy heart, I watch my aunt lock the door, first the wooden one, then the
grill. The vision of my aunt locking these doors shatters my soul into pieces.
Each step I take away from the house feels like an effort, a sadness, a regret,
a burden I know I will have to bear until I return again. At this moment I know
I am leaving her and a part of myself behind.
Jinnah International Airport, Karachi
The dreaded car ride to the
airport doesn’t show any mercy. Emotions which usually only spring up at the
airport take over in the car and stay with me. They will pass eventually, they
always do. I will re-adapt. After all, the only thing constant in life is
change. I hope I will be able to retain the warmth of Pakistan for at least a
little bit longer. Eventually, I know the chill of the West will turn me cold
again.
What
did I learn on this visit to Pakistan? Roots are everything. Anything else is a
distraction, a seductress leading us astray, leaving behind shadows of a
lineage delicately held together by ageing relatives. There's no place like home. Dil dil Pakistan!
Muhammad Zubair is Pakistan's rising talent. At just 22 years old, he strode ahead of grueling competition all the way to the grand finale of Asia's Singing Superstar broadcasted on Zee TV Middle East and Pakistan's own Geo channel in January 2016. The contest was open to all ages and thousands of hopefuls took part across the Middle East, Pakistan and India. A year on, I had the chance to listen to Muhammad at close quarters at a family function in Karachi and officially converted from someone who only listened to commercial music to someone with a great appreciation for ghazals.
