Their emails remind me of those days…those balmy Karachi evenings…the night that was so welcome, so comforting. in that city of lights. My city of lights. I remember the extreme sense of joy and just real happiness I used to feel after getting up from a nap on Thursday nights. The joy of the weekend – in those days Friday and Saturday were holidays. Lying in my parents bed, I would wake up at the sound of azaan. Stretch and look forward to the “Drive” we would go for. No homework, and no school for two whole days.
I used to tell h that im so noble when we went for drives. At that juncture, where you can either head off to saddar and on to Clifton or head to pechs I used to always want to go to pechs. And so that was a source of pride for me. Not so much as I was proud not to be a wannabe ( I probably didn’t even think about those things back then) but just because so much family lived in pechs. And that nice stretch of road with the moon following me. That was bliss.
I don’t even recall how old I was…maybe 12? Then a few years down the road, I remember secretly crying in the backseat of the car – with my parents in front.h wasn’t there. I cried because I knew that this haven of mine – this grey car with its secluded backseat and light ghazal music, these Karachi nights, these drives to MohdAli or meerut or hillpark - and my most precious thing in life – the two people in the front seat – these drives would no longer be the same. I was going to move to another house, travel in a different car, and later move to another part of the world. And I realized it. I had seen enough Indian movies to even have background music in my thoughts. The viddai, the shehnai, the banno song.
Sometimes it seems so long ago..its almost like a dream. Did I ever thank my folks for the wonderful childhood they gave me?
Those drives and that house were my sanctuary.
When I read these emails, they remind me of those bygone times – those priceless memories. I know I can still go to these places with my parents but the carefreeness, the atmosphere, those years of singlehood were just somehow different. As I sit typing in Toronto, looking out of the window, I see cars. The night looks the same but Toronto isn’t Karachi. It can never be.