The Concept of Home is a favourite one of mine. Perhaps because I keep finding one and leaving it behind.
A steady pattern in my life. Although steady is probably not a great word for it.
It felt turbulent when my ten-year-old self had to leave Jordan behind, my senses clinging to the memory of the aroma of roses that clustered around our home. In retrospect, the prickly thorns that come with most roses seemed a thing of the distant past. When you are committed to missing what you left behind, it’s easy to forget the thorny bits.
And committed I was…to fully embracing painful partings: my chubby nose flattened against a window pane as I stared sorrowfully at scenes soon to be left behind.
Goodbye to New Delhi at age four. The sweet warmth of neighbours no more, (back then, the neighbours were sweet rather than bitter).
Farewell, New York, at age five. I missed the scent of Crayola crayons and Spider-Man at 4 pm.
Kuwait, the sprawling, somewhat cultureless metropolis, was a haven for a teenager grappling with who she was. Unnecessarily affluent and somewhat arrogant, it was, on most sun-drenched days, an easy space to navigate. And when it was time to leave and explore the lush green lands of Europe, I found that I was not ready to leave Cadillac City behind.
I had gotten used to cars the size of small houses and a ridiculous sense of convenience, and so with all the might in my eighteen-year-old heart, I rallied against the move to Europe.
But the move happened, as moves do.
And my soul, surely and slowly, settled into the splendour of old-world Europe.
Eight years in Belgium, and I fell in love with wet, gleaming cobblestoned streets.
College in Europe was bliss. I spent long, lazy hours contemplating the meaning of life in warm cafés with flickering firesides. Studying philosophy by day and debating Hegel and Heidegger by night seemed such a natural way to live.
Imagine my confusion when I discovered that it wasn’t.
My parents are no more, the home I was married in and brought my newborn baby to is no more…the buildings have changed, the skyline has changed, perhaps even the song of the seagulls has changed…yet I feel that my city by the sea still waits for me
Armed with a degree in Philosophy and little practical know-how, I found myself thrust into a throbbing, pulsating Karachi, a city I had visited but never lived in before.
Karachi was street-smart, sinister, and not quite reflective, as years spent studying philosophy in Europe had been. Dacoities in the dark of night and carjackings in the cold light of day. Amidst the vibrancy of a hustling city, a strong sense of fear lingered.
I pined for Europe, the quaint continent where I came of age and found myself beautiful.
Over time, however, things changed; I embraced the uncertain rhythm of a crazy city. Karachi was wild in its essence, but a sense of comfort prevailed, for I loved living in the throes of a warm, passionate family.
Relatives in Karachi were not a nuisance. They were a balm.
Mummy and I would head for chai and biscuits to my aunts; we looked forward to weekly family lunches and impromptu ice-cream jaunts, indulged in by elderly relatives with a weakness for ‘igloo’ and ‘polka.’
It took some time, but Pakistan, my place of birth, came to feel like home, perhaps because it was the only constant in a life spent cavorting around different countries and continents.
But then, just when I had found my footing on warm, silken Karachi sands, I was shaken out of my finally found comfort zone.
Marriage happened, and because he was worth it, I had to leave Karachi behind.
People raise an ironic eyebrow when I speak of dusty, dirt-ridden, unsafe Karachi in idealistic terms.
But to me, this city by the sea was precious, glowing with love through grime-filled curtains. It filled me with the warmth of familiarity after so many cold, unfamiliar beginnings.
Turns out, cities by the sea were part of my destiny.
Holding my hesitant hand tightly, my husband showed me the way to New Orleans, a scene you wanted to sashay to: magic, music, and an easy, sensuous grace.
After some serious attention to jazz, blues, and Mardi Gras beads, I found my way back to Karachi; I had missed it so.
But I was meant to keep moving.
Now it was Mozambique, once again a city by the sea, the sky a perfect shade of turquoise. In the words of Bob Dylan, “I like to spend some time in Mozambique…the sunny sky is aqua blue.”
After the African sun, back to Karachi shores once again. My ultimate magnet.
Like I said, I wasn’t meant to stay…next was Seattle, tucked away in what seemed like a distant corner of the world. Luscious, green, cradled by lakes and mountains, Seattle is breathtakingly beautiful but somewhat isolated.
I was surrounded by beautiful scenery, but felt empty inside.
It took some years and some precious friendships to fill that void, and now ten years later, I’m aware of how much I’ve grown with my friends here in the Pacific Northwest and how deep these beautiful bonds are.
I’ve struggled with every new beginning, eventually found solace in every new chapter, and felt heartbroken every time I had to leave.
Perhaps that’s why I’m beyond grateful for the glimmer of those Karachi lights as the plane descends…like a broken necklace, whose gems are strewn against a dark, velvet night.
And to the cynics out there, who find my romantic notions of Karachi entertaining, I want to say…
I know that my city is broken in many ways, but it has kept me together in a vital sense.
“Through time and tide”…while this phrase from Chaucer implies that time waits for no one, my place of birth, with its salty sea waters and humid heat, has remained my constant in a sea of endless change.
And once again, I was reminded of this as I visited Karachi this winter.
It’s January 2026.
My parents are no more, the home I was married in and brought my newborn baby to is no more…the buildings have changed, the skyline has changed, perhaps even the song of the seagulls has changed…yet I feel that my city by the sea still waits for me.
I’m Home Again.
Happy New Year!