My Heart Lives in Pakistan

You slip into the comfort of your own country so seamlessly you don’t even notice it.  It’s like wearing your favourite sneakers – you don’t realise how important they are till you buy new shoes and have to break them in. 

 

We landed at the shoddy little Islamabad airport – Daewoo bus stations are better than the Islamabad airport, as my uncle put it – and I walked out into the crisp cool morning of home, donning on a coat of smug confidence that was held up by invisible fairies right outside the plane door.  

It’s that confidence which makes you stride with your head held high, pushes you to say “exCUSE me!” loudly and indignantly to the aunties and uncles that try to cut the line in front of you, that helps you strike a conversation with a stranger on a bus, or offer help to a young mother with her antsy baby without blinking. 

It’s the confidence of belonging to a place without filling out paperwork and supplying bank documents and paying thousands of dollars in fees, of belonging utterly and completely.

I become almost cocky without realising it, a little smug, rolling my eyes at the slow immigration officers, at the mismatched queues that never seem to follow the helpless signs above the lanes trying to create some order by dividing people into ‘diplomats’, ‘families’ and ‘unaccompanied women and children’ – classic Pakistani divisions, you scoff and smile condescendingly. 

There’s this trend of coming home after a few months or maybe years, and seeing only the negatives – how dirty, look at all the beggars, how does one even move in this kind of traffic, so loud ... an endless whining of how imperfect one’s country is and how perfect Toronto or Charlotte or Birmingham is.

For some reason though, that didn’t happen to me. Maybe things are changing for the better, or maybe I was more homesick than I realised and so I donned rose-tinted glasses for the entire duration of my visit (in reality, it was probably a mix of both). In either case, Pakistan never felt so beautiful to me.

Islamabad was gorgeous, the hills always in the background, coated in a fine film of dust till it finally rained five days into my visit (incidentally on the actual day of my sister’s wedding who took it beautifully, hiking up her beautiful gharara and striding on). The sun was out every day and while the afternoons would get quite warm, the mornings and evenings were perfect to sit out and bask in the golden rays. The holy sun shone brilliantly almost every day – you see, in Pakistan he is a permanent feature of the sky unlike his mercurial twin who stays in a funk and doesn’t show his face for days back in England). 

At night it would get just chilly enough to wrap a shawl around your shoulders and your fingers around a hot cup of strong sweet chai – and yeah, that’s it! No giant jackets that make you look like the Michelin man, no boots and socks and gloves and scarves. I think I saved hours of my life by not having to layer up every time I needed to leave the house.

And I finally drove! After more than a year of buses and trains and waiting for buses and walking and still waiting for buses, I could get into a car and just drive when I wanted to where I wanted. And yes the traffic in Karachi was as psychotic and nerve-wracking as always, but driving in Islamabad was quite nice (despite all the Islamabadis whining about how bad it has gotten – for a Karachiite, it’s quite calming to zoom down the nice long road stretches).

The hum of familiar accents, the loudness, the gestures, the sheer number of people – and the colours! I hadn’t realised how gray England is – not just the sky but the beige and brown architecture and the dark coats and jackets and umbrellas – till I came back here from Pakistan. Pakistan with its chaotic mad houses and apartments and buildings, blue and pink and orange, the food, the drinks, the smells, sweet and spicy and sour, the kurtis, the dupattas, gold, red, green – it’s a constant assault on your senses.

This time around, I saw so many more foreigners – white people (Europeans? Americans?) and Chinese too (thanks to CPEC). It was like a pat on my patriotic back every time I saw a white face, as if it was a personal achievement that some foreigner had decided to visit Pakistan (a fierce “I’ve always said my country is gorgeous and amazing and generous and people need to come here!”).  I saw more Asian stores and even authentic Chinese and Korean restaurants.

And how amazing was it to be able to eat all the food I had been craving! Halwa poori and anda paratha from a posh cafe in Kohsar Market, out on a table under the winter sun, feeling WARM! What a sensation after months of always being cold or on the verge of being cold.

I love the fact that we have more businesses, restaurants and shops opening in Pakistan with owners who have chosen or decided (or maybe even been forced) to stay in their country and contribute to the culture, the society, the economy, each in their own way, pursuing their passions and dreams while being a productive part of their own community.  I loved how the auntie who owned that cafe came out and asked us how we were doing, in her laidback slacks and grey hair.  Even now I dream of how her life must be in her spacious bungalow in one of the most expensive areas in Islamabad (close to where her restaurant was). I bet she has a Labrador and loves to garden.

And oh, to love rain again.  It is always such a ceremonial affair – no mundane morose rain in Pakistan.  There is a fervour – a stirring of the wind, an awakening of the earth, with the breeze gently nudging motes of dust, swirling them up and around in this indescribable intoxicating fragrance of life and love . The entire landscape lilts and sings in anticipation of a storm.  And Islamabad is absolutely breathtaking when it rains – the colours sharp and bright enough to dazzle you, the sky a swirly gentle mass of fresh blue and white cotton, the trees brilliant and green, the roads clean and the mountains clear and majestic.

I loved being surrounded by my parents and siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles and nephews and nieces – family and friends.  It was so good to not have to worry about dirty bathrooms or what to cook, of if the second-hand washing machine we have is finally going to give out today ... to have my mum asking what I wanted for dinner, popping open my sister’s wardrobe and wearing her clothes, going to my cousin’s house and being smothered in hugs from her little boys, being fed stale popcorn by the little one and told stories by the 7-year old who claimed he is the fastest cyclist in the neighbourhood if not the city and has won ‘HUNDREDS’ of races.  “Ask my dad if you don’t believe me,” he said, pre-empting my disbelief.

I thought the roads were clean, and I enjoyed the help that is always offered by strangers on streets so that you can park as close to the curb as possible, my heart was warmed by the random family that kept my sister’s Canadian friend company at the airport because my cousins were late in picking her up, by the man who turned on his mobile hotspot for Fahad so he could make a phone call because we didn’t have our Pakistani SIMS.  

I love the sprout of new restaurants in Karachi and Islamabad, and I couldn’t get enough of the beautiful home decor and furniture shops in Karachi that showcase some of the incredible talent that bubbles in the schools and studios of our country. 

I’m madly proud of the people who have chosen to live in Pakistan and are teaching in universities like the new and upcoming Habib University in Karachi, who are helping cultivate festivals like the literature festival, the food festival and the biennale events, participating in cycling and recycling campaigns and working in the arts and theatre industries, who are working in fantastic organisations like TCF and Indus Hospital.

I don’t want to jinx anything but I’m excited and I’m hopeful, and I hope that there are brighter days coming (and to anyone who approaches me with stories of doom and gloom and a pin to pop the balloons of love and hope, I say not now. Because, don’t you know, umeed pe dunya qaim hai).  

And I can’t wait to go back, for the chicken tikkas and the parathas, the roadside dhabas and the truck-art inspired coasters and wall art, for the sun and the mountains and the monsoons, and of course, all the people I love ...