Dust and Color

I stared out of the airplane window, my heart tingling with
excitement. This was no ordinary darkness. It swirled by, invisible,
yet full of anticipation --a sensation that seemed to emanate out of
it and gradually settle somewhere deep inside of me. The kids were
sprawled out on the two seats beside me in what seemed to be painfully
uncomfortable contortions, but their blissful expressions betrayed a
deep sleep of unspoiled forbearance. And then it came. That first
fleeting hint of descent, reminiscent of downhill rides and elevator
tickles. The momentary feeling of physical weightlessness found a
complement in the lightness of my spirit; I felt my heart swell at the
prospect of seeing my folks and friends after a whole year. Soon the
city lights spread before me --a motley assemblage of yellow and
white, dull and bright. No comparison to the awesome galactic aerial
view of New York or Washington, D.C., but somehow more accessible,
easier to grasp, less overwhelming.

I stepped out of the connector bus, struggling with my hand luggage
and the two drugged zombies under my care, and walked towards the
lounge door --another joyful constriction in my chest when I saw the
gods of my childhood (now mere mortals before my adult eyes) --Mom and
Dad. After the hugs and kisses and the truly heartfelt oohs and ahs,
we settled down in one of the waiting areas while someone took care of
immigration and baggage claim for me. One of the wonderful perks of
being a middle-to-upper class citizen living in a poor, third world
society is that if you know the right people, and you're worth knowing
for them, you can get a lot done with minimal trouble. You have to pay
for these highly specialized favors though, sometimes very
dearly. It's a vicious cycle that, those who live there, claim, is
near impossible to get out of. So, they say, it's best to just lay
back and go with the flow --do what you can get done, and don't go and
work yourself into a hypertensive fit over what you can't. But people
will be people. We love being pampered there, basking in our glories
when we don't as much as have to see the face of our immigration
officer, much less be subjected to his pestering inquisitions about
why two American citizens (still in zombie mode), don't have visas for
Pakistan. But when we experience life, we bicker and agonize over why
a particular road that took millions to build only last year, now
seems to be the archeological find of a lost civilization, or why
nobody EVER answers when you dial 17--directory
information. Goddammit. What nobody seems to have put together yet,
or is still in denial about, is the seethingly blatant connection
between these two worlds --the world where things get done, one way or
another, and that other one where the shambles of government, police,
healthcare, and the justice system are hopeless facades over a
nonexistent infrastructure. But hey, I was going to be there for all
of three weeks, on vacation, nonetheless. Was I going to attempt to
change the world? Nah. And no use getting all worked up over the
things that were so utterly wrong there either. I'd grown up with
them, and the thought that the egregiousness of it all should be in
such sharp focus after I'd had a taste of America embarrassed me a
little, as if I'd sold out to the West. I know, the line of logic
smells of fallacy, but who said loyalty had anything to do with
rationality?

It took a lot out of me to feign the nonchalance of my earlier years
as I clenched my fists at the sight of the Mac truck coming right at
us while our driver attempted to pass another car. My son, fully awake
now, and quite taken by all the grandparently attention, seemed amused
by the thrillseeking driver's gutsiness. Eyes wide in wonderment, he
sang, "We're gonna cra-a-a-a-sh!"

Before I could check myself, I snapped, "Shut-up, Saad, and get back
in your seat!" My father sensed my anxiety and told the driver to take
it easy.

The faint pink in the horizon of a cloudless sky promised a warm sun
on this chilly December day. As we drove up the narrow driveway, the
familiar sight of cracking paint and mildew on the boundary walls
conjured up that rare feeling of wanting to live the moment, taste and
relish its deliciousness, the moment in which past is past and the
future is not invited. This was home. This was where I didn't have to
be all that I could be. No-strings-attached, come-as-you-are, home. Of
course, technically it was no longer my home; I'm happily married,
living in the United States in a house with a picket fence. And I love
it here. But arriving in the neighborhood where I had grown up, with
its dewy morning air and chirping morning birds, carried a sense of
reconnection with the soul.

My friends and I used to joke about the way we Pakistanis are
--emotional, impulsive, easily moved --and often compared it to
Western composure, as we laughingly scoffed at Westerners
"cold-heartedness."

"Even our birds get all excited at dawn, as if it were the first light
they ever saw!", we'd say.

The servants greeted me and helped me carry in my luggage. Abu retired
into his bedroom for a nap.

"Don't forget your Nani," Ammi said, eyebrows raised, as I prepared to
sit down, "you know how she is."

My eighty-something year-old grandmother lived with my parents. I felt
a bit ashamed at having forgotten all about going in to greet her. I
went into her room and saw her perfectly white head protruding out
from under her heavy blankets.

"Nani?" I said a bit loudly, remembering that she had suffered some
hearing loss over the years.

"Who is it?"

"Anni", I said and lifted the covers from her face. She squinted at
me, and I bent down to give her a tight hug. With some effort, she sat
up.

"All night I've waited for you. When is my Anni coming, when are you
going to the airport, I kept asking your mother and father."

She smiled and asked for her glasses, which lay on her night table. I
told her she looked good. She said that at her age, looking good
becomes irrelevant, it's the feeling good that's the key, or rather,
feeling, period. I asked her about her hip, which had broken a couple
of years earlier. It hurt, but at least she could get around with a
cane. Old age is terrible, but what can you do.

In the hour or so that I spent with my grandmother, her talk
deteriorated from gladness, to sorrow, to self-pity, and then to
outright bitterness. She told me how unfair Ammi could be sometimes,
so disrespectful to her old mother. I tried to enumerate the good
things in her life --her four wonderful children who loved her, the
physical comforts that surrounded her, and a lifetime of happy
memories. She only waved her hand in a flourish that seemed to banish
the sentiments I had hoped to inspire, and the room was heavy again. I
gave her another hug and went out.

In the following three weeks, I had a blast. I spent time with my
brothers and sister, got together with three of my best friends a
number of times, going out or just sitting around catching up on each
others' lives. I met with aunts, uncles, and cousins, feeling closer
than ever to some of them, and squirming under the awkwardness of
ever-widening gaps with others. My mother fluttered about, her usual
self, flattered to the point of madness sometimes, at the visitors
that so often amassed at our house. She tried to include Nani in the
festivities whenever possible, helping her out into the living room,
or into the car if we'd decided to eat out.

The servants seemed happy too despite their ungodly workloads. They
would be up at dawn, and after preparing and serving several shifts of
breakfast, they'd get busy with lunch, which has always been a huge
affair at my parents'. The kitchen remained active till about ten at
night, and only after that did the two women get a chance to relax in
our family room and unwind with a TV show or two. I have known the
older one, Abai, since I was a baby. Although now "retired", she
comes back to help out whenever I go to visit. It is a good chance for
her to earn some extra money --more than usual --since most of the
visitors make it a point to give her a little something for her
troubles. Nasreen, the younger one, was a new face. The lady from last
year had left.

"These people have no sense of loyalty", my mother remarked when I
asked her about Zohra. "After all we did for her and her husband. She
said she had to go to her village for three days, but then never came
back. Mrs. Choudhry tells me she works at one of her neighbors' now."

The kids were in bed, the servants had retired, and Ammi was lying by
the gas heater. I snuggled up against her on the carpeted floor. A
light blanket covered us. Even with all the hired help, Ammi has
always managed to get herself achingly tired by the end of the
day. The finicky person that she is, I never remember her being
completely satisfied with the servants' work --resetting the table
after them, remaking the beds after their imperfect efforts at
neatness, and running in the wake of the cleaning lady, teasing out
microscopic hairs of lint and specks of dust from the crevices in the
carpet.

"Ammi, if you have six barefoot children, and live in hopeless
poverty--"

"Her children never went hungry or barefoot under our care", my mother
retorted. My mother has an amazing affinity for the literal, and even
though she has a loving and generous heart, she often misses the
larger picture. As I lay there with my mother getting the latest
scoops of family gossip, the subject of my grandmother came up.

"She's never happy--never", my mother said. "She has a lot to do with
Zohra's running away. Uff, Anni, you cannot imagine the way your Nani
treated her, cursing, screaming at her all day."

It was the same story every year for the past four. My grandmother,
whom I still remember as a strong, boisterous, joke-telling,
lap-slapping life of the party, had lately become growingly relentless
in pointing out and dwelling on the misery factor of existence. Maybe
it was because of her declining health, her loss of independence, or
perhaps this was her way of rejecting old age and the inevitabilities
that came with it. My mother was sitting up now, telling me how
embarrassed she felt in front of my father because of Nani's
ways. Ammi often lost her temper with Nani. My grandmother, a few days
before I arrived, made a big scene regarding her food service. She
claimed my mother didn't feed her properly because she wanted to
starve her to death.

"That's what you want, I know it", said my mother, feigning Nani, "I
won't forgive you for this when you have to answer to God, I'll make
sure you get your due!"

"Just ignore her, Ammi. She's old --don't let it get to you", I said
with an ease that can only come from distanced inexperience.

"How can I ignore it, Anni? She's my mother. I'm afraid she'll wish
something awful upon me --mother's words have power, regardless of
who's right and who's wrong."

Ammi's lips trembled a little when she said that, and she was blinking
faster than usual, in an attempt to send back the little pool to where
it had come from. A tiny drop escaped her efforts and made a glassy
pearl at the corner of one eye. I felt a heavy mass of anger build
inside me. I hugged my mother and once again, told her not to think
about it too much. And anyway, Mamoo was coming next month from Dubai;
Nani would soon be moving to his place. For the first time in years, I
saw my mother not ashamed at being glad about the prospect of her
mother moving out.

As the day of my departure from Pakistan approached, my parents seemed
more and more anxious about our annual parting ritual. "Just three
weeks after a whole year just isn't enough", they'd say. My father's
indulgent attitude towards his grandchildren, which had tempered down
somewhat as we settled down in our daily routines, now escalated again
under the poignancy of the imminent end of our trip. He took the kids
toy-shopping the day before we were to leave and insisted they sleep
in my parents' room that night. Nani seemed sad too. She asked me to
sit with her and tell her about my life in America. She read something
from the Quran and blew it over me -- "to keep you under God's care,
and to keep away evil", she said.

At about twelve-thirty the next night, my parents drove us to the
airport for our 3:00 AM flight to New York. A strange, semi-sweet
sensation brewed inside me. I was happy and satisfied because I'd had
yet another wonderful stay (I had video tape to remember it by), and
also because I'd be seeing my husband after a whole month. I'd be back
to my own kitchen, my workstation, my car. The kids would be back to
some kind of ordered existence --no more of this sleeping whenever and
wherever, no more of this perpetual vacation drunkenness. But of
course, I was painfully sad too. I'd miss my family, my friends, my
world of diminished responsibility. I felt a little guilty for not
having spent enough time with my grandmother and a little worried for
my mother who had to spend too much time coping with her
dissatisfactions. As we hugged and kissed and said our goodbyes, I
smiled cheerfully, maybe too cheerfully, and promised I'd call as soon
as I got home.

My grandmother now lives with my uncle, a few miles away from where my
parents are. She seems happier there, or at least doesn't complain as
much. Maybe it's because there isn't anyone to complain to; my uncle
spends most of the day at work and his wife in her room, and there is
only so much kids these days will take. My mother often brings her for
overnight visits.

As I sit here in front of my computer, writing about all this,
reliving the experiences of yet another memorable trip, the flashbacks
sprinkle my own sense of being with the dust and color of my past. I
have to cook and clean and do some laundry today. Then I'll drive on
the wide, smooth road to the super market and pick up some groceries
for the rest of the week. On the way I'll pass the nursing/retirement
home. Once again, I'll find myself getting angry at the heartlessness
of the institution. Where are these old people's children --the ones
they fed and nursed and stayed up nights with? Working, I'll tell
myself, in an attempt for honesty and objectivity. The basic
structure, the system of life here, that works so well otherwise,
makes it too difficult for people to keep their elderly with them,
I'll reassure myself.

And tonight, after my kids are fed and tucked away in bed, and my
chores are all done, I'll spend some quality time with my husband, and
maybe discuss our future.