Leaving Pindi is Always Hard

Leaving Pindi is always hard. I know that when and if I return again, the place will be different, the situation will have changed. To be able to see a glimpse of the environment that my grandparents and parents were brought up in–that is what creates a special place for Pindi in my heart.

I once started crying “uncontrollably” (as one of my relatives put it) as I was leaving. My grandmother had just died and I knew that time would only bring more unwanted change. Since then, the political situation has deteriorated, and our friends and relatives have all been affected. Many loved ones have passed on, some by sickness and old age, some from natural disasters.

But remnants of the past remain. The horizon is still lined with the foothills of the Himalayas (though with the pollution, they’re not as clear as they used to be). You can still walk through the yard and pick oranges and mangos, depending on the season, but now the yard is bordered with gates and barbed wire, and military officers patrolling the neighborhood around the clock.

Those who commute from Rawalpindi to Islamabad via Faqir Ajpee Road are now accustomed to stand-still traffic. The view on the right side is of the european Metro wholesale store (to the likes of Costco), and to the left is an Afghan refugee camp, or kachi abadi. Lines of tents have now transformed into lines of mud houses, signs that the relocation of the Afghans is no longer temporary.

I went from spending time in a house full of babies in Lahore to the lifestyle of a retirement home in Pindi. I attended the weekly Mahjong games with my step-grandmother. I took short neighborhood walks, watched the latest Pakistani dramas each weekend night. I enjoyed fresh chapatis each meal, and getting to pick out which vegetables from the garden I wanted to eat for dinner. (Okra was my all-time favorite)

Discussions are different with the elderly. You not only hear of hardships, regrets, but also wise words and memories of special moments.

“Suno sabki, karo manki. Listen to everyone, do what you think is right.”

“My father told his brother that I was his favorite son. That was the best compliment I could have ever received.”

I love my Nana. Spending time with him makes me realize all the ways I am influenced by my mother’s parents. The way he spends all his time in the sunny veranda with large windows, the way he loves “non-stop action”, never pausing for something where he’s not learning or working, the way he loves aesthetics. All of my relatives agree, Nana is FUN. I haven’t been e-mailed by anyone as much as I have by him, and each day I fail to appreciate my inbox full of forwards from him is each day I fail to recognize such a great blessing.

Lastly, my Dadi is buried in Pindi. The first time I saw her grave I went into a state of shock. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that the grandmother I had been laughing with, walking with, sleeping next to, just a few months ago, was now buried before me, with only a mound of dirt covering her. Since then I’ve always been fearful to see other loved ones pass, and of course, of my own death. But I returned again to her grave on this last trip, and my feelings were surprisingly different. After picking out the remnants of an old bouquet from the grass above her grave I stopped and thought, ok, she may be buried here, but she’s not here, here. She’s somewhere else. She’s okay. InshaAllah.

P.S. And to my favoritest dog in the whole wide world, Coo, and XJR, my nana’s peaceful house with all of his random artifacts, til next time, inshaAllah.