A trip of several lifetimes

My bags are not entirely packed but I am ready to go. As I prepared to travel to Pakistan this week, I realised that I will be the first in the last three generations of my family to actually visit that country (unless, of course, you count the time that my grandfather was on a flight which strayed into Pakistani air space).

Volumes have been written about the bloody partition in 1947, from which Pakistan was created. Accounts of deaths have, over the years, turned into bitter tales that explain the holes in a family tree. This is true for a lot of families who live on either side of the borders of India and Pakistan, and to a certain extent, modern-day Bangladesh, which, after partition was called East Pakistan before gaining independence in 1971.

In spite of all the stories I heard growing up, one of my best friends who I would meet in Canada and become inseparable from, is from Pakistan. It is her wedding that I am going to attend. We bonded over a number of things, but mostly over matters that struck a common chord. The grandness of the lives lived by our grandparents and their ancestors. Our mothers and their jewellery and sari collections. How our fathers wooed our mothers. Our international upbringing as a result of the decisions made by our parents, who were in turn, influenced by the education and guidance they received. And most of all, cooking. When either of us fired up our stoves (we lived two blocks away from each in the heart of Toronto), there was a feast.

Many years ago, in the kind of moment that only comes when two girls stay up all night chatting, I promised her that no matter where it took place, and no matter what circumstances I found myself in, I would attend her wedding. So after a month of waiting on a Pakistani visa – an experience made most pleasant by cordial officials (the best samosas in town come from the canteen inside the embassy) – I was summoned last week. Now, I am ready to embark on a trip that is rare for an ordinary Indian.

As I relayed the news to my mother, I expected the usual list of concerns. Be careful (you’re a journalist). Be careful (you’re a woman). Be careful (she like saying things in triplicate).

Instead her deepest worry lay in my attire. In spite of 60 years of independent living and cultivating different cultures, the codes of conduct and decorum have remained the same. And the emphasis on putting your best foot forward. And so, as if she were sending an emissary she said: “Please don’t pack your torn jeans.”