adjusted to my new life and had no intention of remaining in Pakistan. Everyone including myself had accepted that I was always going to be a visitor in my own home.
On August 17, 1988, the day I was leaving for California, Mr. Rehman summoned everyone to the lounge where the television was on. He said that there was going to be an important announcement. Soon, Ghulam Ishaq Khan was addressing the nation, appearing rather solemn. He announced that the plane carrying President Zia-ul-Haq had crashed. Soon news came that General Zia had indeed died, along with several other passengers, after a ten-year term. Despite the nature of his regime, it was unsettling news, perhaps because he was all that I had known of Pakistan’s presidency. It remained unclear what the circumstances of the crash were, and my stepfather was convinced that it was all part of an international conspiracy.
Soon the dormant political parties reemerged with fervor. Bhutto’s daughter, Benazir, seemed to be a promising new leader. She was Oxford-educated, dynamic, and an effective speaker, much like her father. She was now the leader of Pakistan People’s Party and a candidate for upcoming elections. Theother major party was Muslim League, headed by Mian Nawaz Sharif, who also seemed to have a large number of followers. The Muhajir Qaumi Movement, which later came to be known as the Muttahida Qaumi Movement, led by Altaf Hussain, had gained popularity as an important local party in Karachi. It was the voice of the suppressed Muhajirs, the Urdu-speaking community who had migrated from India during the partition days. There appeared to be hope for a new beginning, but that hope was soon dashed when Benazir was elected prime minister and allegations of corruption emerged. I was greatly disappointed, because I had felt a connection with her; she too had lost her father in an extremely tragic way.
Back in California, I talked to Ammi more often to inquire about the baby’s progress and what new things she was doing. She had completely stolen everyone’s heart, and it seemed as though she had been the missing piece in this now perfect and complete new family. Mr. Rehman had replaced Papa, and Sara had replaced me. Ammi called me less frequently, perhaps because she was consumed by the baby’s needs, but to me it felt as though she had a new daughter and no longer needed me in her life.
One night when I was feeling terribly lonely, I called home. Sakina answered and said that everyone had gone out. I stayed up late waiting for a call back, but it never came; perhaps Sakina, who seemed to be getting quite forgetful lately, failed to convey the message. Maybe the twelve-hour time difference had come in to play; it was possible that when they returned they assumed I would be sleeping. To me, however, the most likely explanation was that they had not deemed it necessary to return my call.
Feeling dejected, I went quietly to my aunt’s classic music collection, pulled out Barbra Streisand’s song “Papa Can You Hear Me,” and placed the cassette in my Walkman. I took out some old photographs from my drawer. I had kept them safely with me, but had not had the courage to look at them before.But now I wanted to make sure that Papa’s memory stayed fresh in my mind—the outline of his face, the varying expressions in his eyes. My fear of remembering was being replaced by a newer fear—the fear of forgetting. Would I start forgetting the small details? Was forgetting a part of healing? If it was, then I did not want to heal. I slowly took out the pictures and did not fight the tears that escaped. There was a photograph of my parents’ wedding; it was still beautiful, despite having acquired a reddish hue. My mother was dressed in a gorgeous red
gharaara
, appearing like a royal princess, her downcast eyes reflecting her shy demeanor. My father sat beside her in a traditional white
sherwani;
he gazed at her with admiration and with what seemed like a promise
On August 17, 1988, the day I was leaving for California, Mr. Rehman summoned everyone to the lounge where the television was on. He said that there was going to be an important announcement. Soon, Ghulam Ishaq Khan was addressing the nation, appearing rather solemn. He announced that the plane carrying President Zia-ul-Haq had crashed. Soon news came that General Zia had indeed died, along with several other passengers, after a ten-year term. Despite the nature of his regime, it was unsettling news, perhaps because he was all that I had known of Pakistan’s presidency. It remained unclear what the circumstances of the crash were, and my stepfather was convinced that it was all part of an international conspiracy.
Soon the dormant political parties reemerged with fervor. Bhutto’s daughter, Benazir, seemed to be a promising new leader. She was Oxford-educated, dynamic, and an effective speaker, much like her father. She was now the leader of Pakistan People’s Party and a candidate for upcoming elections. Theother major party was Muslim League, headed by Mian Nawaz Sharif, who also seemed to have a large number of followers. The Muhajir Qaumi Movement, which later came to be known as the Muttahida Qaumi Movement, led by Altaf Hussain, had gained popularity as an important local party in Karachi. It was the voice of the suppressed Muhajirs, the Urdu-speaking community who had migrated from India during the partition days. There appeared to be hope for a new beginning, but that hope was soon dashed when Benazir was elected prime minister and allegations of corruption emerged. I was greatly disappointed, because I had felt a connection with her; she too had lost her father in an extremely tragic way.
Back in California, I talked to Ammi more often to inquire about the baby’s progress and what new things she was doing. She had completely stolen everyone’s heart, and it seemed as though she had been the missing piece in this now perfect and complete new family. Mr. Rehman had replaced Papa, and Sara had replaced me. Ammi called me less frequently, perhaps because she was consumed by the baby’s needs, but to me it felt as though she had a new daughter and no longer needed me in her life.
One night when I was feeling terribly lonely, I called home. Sakina answered and said that everyone had gone out. I stayed up late waiting for a call back, but it never came; perhaps Sakina, who seemed to be getting quite forgetful lately, failed to convey the message. Maybe the twelve-hour time difference had come in to play; it was possible that when they returned they assumed I would be sleeping. To me, however, the most likely explanation was that they had not deemed it necessary to return my call.
Feeling dejected, I went quietly to my aunt’s classic music collection, pulled out Barbra Streisand’s song “Papa Can You Hear Me,” and placed the cassette in my Walkman. I took out some old photographs from my drawer. I had kept them safely with me, but had not had the courage to look at them before.But now I wanted to make sure that Papa’s memory stayed fresh in my mind—the outline of his face, the varying expressions in his eyes. My fear of remembering was being replaced by a newer fear—the fear of forgetting. Would I start forgetting the small details? Was forgetting a part of healing? If it was, then I did not want to heal. I slowly took out the pictures and did not fight the tears that escaped. There was a photograph of my parents’ wedding; it was still beautiful, despite having acquired a reddish hue. My mother was dressed in a gorgeous red
gharaara
, appearing like a royal princess, her downcast eyes reflecting her shy demeanor. My father sat beside her in a traditional white
sherwani;
he gazed at her with admiration and with what seemed like a promise
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