me forward and I couldn’t see her any more.
I found my seat inside the plane; it was near the stewards’ station with all the unaccompanied kids. A Chinese girl said, ‘Are you helping to look after us?’
I let her think that, and all the way to Singapore I took kids to the toilet and the cockpit, and ripped open their refresher towels. Good thing Papa had pre-ordered my meal, for all the kids had hamburgers with bacon. I would have gone hungry.
Maryam’s package made a bump in my handbag and I took it out and unwrapped it. How nice of her to giveme a gift when I was only going on a holiday. Then my hands stilled. It wasn’t from Maryam. There was a note:
Piari Ameera, you are the moon and I am but an unworthy star daring to shine in your glory. I made this for you to wear, and one day I hope to exchange it for gold. Tariq
It was a necklace of wooden and ceramic beads, blue and purple. How sweet was that? I tied it around my neck. His reference to gold thrilled me. I knew his intentions now: he wanted to marry me. I would persuade Papa to accept Tariq when I was older. Papa loved me; surely he would want the best for me and what made me happiest? I sat staring out the window. Tariq and I were kindred spirits; it was as if we experienced the world with the same soul. I didn’t have to touch him to know he felt the same.
Singapore airport was clean and ordered. I had five hours to wait there before my flight to Islamabad. Papa had booked my backpack straight through. I sat near a Pakistani family and hoped people would think I was with them. It didn’t stop a young man, about Tariq’s age, from approaching me. He took a seat nearby.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Azad Kashmir.’ I wasn’t sure if I should be talking to him. He looked Pakistani and should have known better.
‘Would you like coffee?’ he said.
I repeated Papa’s instructions: ‘You need to ask my father.’
The young man realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I include your father as well. It’s just that you look so like a Bollywood actress, I didn’t think. Please excuse me.’ And he abruptly left.
I sat bemused. A Bollywood actress? That was a modern metaphor for a beautiful girl. Wouldn’t Riaz laugh? I was fairer than most Pakistanis because of Mum. Papa’s skin wasn’t very dark either: something to do with being a Kashmiri with Pushtun ancestors. And my hair was dark brown, not almost-black like Maryam’s and Tariq’s. Fair skin and brown hair adds up to beauty in Pakistan.
Eventually, I was back on a plane and drawing closer to Pakistan by the hour. I was also becoming more nervous. What if I didn’t recognise Uncle Rasheed and he missed me? What would I do alone in a strange country? And my backpack: what if it didn’t arrive? Stop worrying, I told myself. Pakistan was the land of my father’s ancestors. At least I’d look like I belonged.
I had dual citizenship and two passports, so when I arrived in Islamabad I joined the Pakistani line. The man behind the counter appeared bored but as he checked me through his camera lens, he said, ‘Khushumderd, welcome home,’ and smiled politely.
‘Shukriya, thank you.’ He unsettled me for I hadn’t come home.
I followed a line to pick up my bag, and then went to an exit. I held my breath, waited for a family to walk through and tagged along with them. ‘Don’t advertiseyou are travelling alone,’ Papa had said. His instructions were seared into my brain.
Outside I was met by the noise of traffic and the cool, sharp smell of spices and drains. Even though it was late at night, there were so many people—mainly men—waiting to claim their relatives. How would I find Uncle? Instantly my excitement dissipated; here I was visiting the land of my ancestors and all I felt was fear. I followed the line of travellers, trying not to look any men in the eyes yet searching for Uncle. I saw a man holding up a card with something written in Urdu. Perhaps Uncle would
I found my seat inside the plane; it was near the stewards’ station with all the unaccompanied kids. A Chinese girl said, ‘Are you helping to look after us?’
I let her think that, and all the way to Singapore I took kids to the toilet and the cockpit, and ripped open their refresher towels. Good thing Papa had pre-ordered my meal, for all the kids had hamburgers with bacon. I would have gone hungry.
Maryam’s package made a bump in my handbag and I took it out and unwrapped it. How nice of her to giveme a gift when I was only going on a holiday. Then my hands stilled. It wasn’t from Maryam. There was a note:
Piari Ameera, you are the moon and I am but an unworthy star daring to shine in your glory. I made this for you to wear, and one day I hope to exchange it for gold. Tariq
It was a necklace of wooden and ceramic beads, blue and purple. How sweet was that? I tied it around my neck. His reference to gold thrilled me. I knew his intentions now: he wanted to marry me. I would persuade Papa to accept Tariq when I was older. Papa loved me; surely he would want the best for me and what made me happiest? I sat staring out the window. Tariq and I were kindred spirits; it was as if we experienced the world with the same soul. I didn’t have to touch him to know he felt the same.
Singapore airport was clean and ordered. I had five hours to wait there before my flight to Islamabad. Papa had booked my backpack straight through. I sat near a Pakistani family and hoped people would think I was with them. It didn’t stop a young man, about Tariq’s age, from approaching me. He took a seat nearby.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Azad Kashmir.’ I wasn’t sure if I should be talking to him. He looked Pakistani and should have known better.
‘Would you like coffee?’ he said.
I repeated Papa’s instructions: ‘You need to ask my father.’
The young man realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I include your father as well. It’s just that you look so like a Bollywood actress, I didn’t think. Please excuse me.’ And he abruptly left.
I sat bemused. A Bollywood actress? That was a modern metaphor for a beautiful girl. Wouldn’t Riaz laugh? I was fairer than most Pakistanis because of Mum. Papa’s skin wasn’t very dark either: something to do with being a Kashmiri with Pushtun ancestors. And my hair was dark brown, not almost-black like Maryam’s and Tariq’s. Fair skin and brown hair adds up to beauty in Pakistan.
Eventually, I was back on a plane and drawing closer to Pakistan by the hour. I was also becoming more nervous. What if I didn’t recognise Uncle Rasheed and he missed me? What would I do alone in a strange country? And my backpack: what if it didn’t arrive? Stop worrying, I told myself. Pakistan was the land of my father’s ancestors. At least I’d look like I belonged.
I had dual citizenship and two passports, so when I arrived in Islamabad I joined the Pakistani line. The man behind the counter appeared bored but as he checked me through his camera lens, he said, ‘Khushumderd, welcome home,’ and smiled politely.
‘Shukriya, thank you.’ He unsettled me for I hadn’t come home.
I followed a line to pick up my bag, and then went to an exit. I held my breath, waited for a family to walk through and tagged along with them. ‘Don’t advertiseyou are travelling alone,’ Papa had said. His instructions were seared into my brain.
Outside I was met by the noise of traffic and the cool, sharp smell of spices and drains. Even though it was late at night, there were so many people—mainly men—waiting to claim their relatives. How would I find Uncle? Instantly my excitement dissipated; here I was visiting the land of my ancestors and all I felt was fear. I followed the line of travellers, trying not to look any men in the eyes yet searching for Uncle. I saw a man holding up a card with something written in Urdu. Perhaps Uncle would
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