Death by Title

OK, lets get to it. I have a lot to document and to be fair and equitable to my youngest sibling, I should’ve documented it sooner. After all, I started drafting my trip blog at the Rehmet-e-Shereen branch of Karachi’s Jinnah Terminal after my first sister got married and we had just begun our return journey. My baby sister has been married a few weeks now and I’ve yet to pen a single word. Guilt haunts my very soul.

So, this post is partly to explain myself and to set things in motion.

Firstly, “The Case of the Missing Qazi’ was a brilliant title and it helped write itself. People who know my obsession with blog titles will be sympathetic (I hope). I’m yet to find a good title for my new post. Hence: A self enforced writers block.

Secondly, it might be the lack of al-widai (parting) mithai (dessert) ritual at Jinnah Terminal. Since I was already loaded with tons of mithai from Mehmood Sweets and Multani Habshi Halwa, I didn’t stop to relax at Rehmet-e-Shereen on our way to the boarding gate. Perhaps their mithai has become a muse of sorts. Without it, the words just don’t flow as easily?

Now that I’m done giving lame excuses, its time to make amends. Here’s the plan: I intend to breakdown my trip in chunks to make it more manageable. Where have you heard that before? Yes, right — I did the same thing after my Winter of 2014 trip to Pakistan and it worked out quite nicely. Well ahem, apart from the fact that while I blogged about Islamabad, Peshawar, and Lahore, I couldn’t quite manage to include Karachi. I was blogging in chronological order and after the high of Lahore, I had basically lost all my trip blogging mojo.

And then it was time to go again. But this time, Karachi was first on the agenda. And to hell with chronology.

Let’s start this journey with a short story (inspired by real events) during our last few hours in Pakistan.

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City of Dreams

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In the wee hours of one Sunday morning in Karachi, a white sedan on Shahrah-e-Faisal slowly makes its way to the airport. Multiple biker gangs come alive-passing the car by the dozen. Speeding in and out. From every direction. Young men, celebrating freedom from work, from family, from all their troubles. This is their City. Their Highway. Their time.

This is weekend joy-Karachi style.

But alas, this story is not about them. Although they are deserving of one.

The car houses a family of Pakistani Americans, just starting their return journey stateside. Physically, they’re spent. Understandable, after a two week wedding, domestic travel, and shopping marathon. Mama and Papa bear are also an emotional train wreck. Understandable, for Pakistan is like an old and trusted friend who they reunited with after a long and inexcusable gap. Spending time with this old friend reminds them why they fell in love in the first place. They feel guilty for extending their long distance relationship and absolutely hate saying goodbye. They also realize that with every passing year, the thread that binds them to this friend becomes weaker. At this very moment, they also hate the inevitability of passing time.

In the backseat, their 11 year old (visiting Pakistan for what was practically his first time), suddenly sobs and sniffles. He’s upset. Not because he is tired and sleepy. Not because Papa bear refused to pack his toy gun. Not because he misses his home and his friends.

Because he doesn’t want to leave.

Mama and Papa Bear had envisioned many different alternative realities (Papa Bear is a sci-fi geek) on how the kids would take to Pakistan.

This was not one of them.

They’re struck (no, battered) by a strong sense of déjà vu.

And hope.