“Kabhi isko dekhti hoon tou tum nazar aati ho.”

17 years and 7 months ago it was she who came running to hold me that day in the airport, tucked warmly away from the cold winter outside. No, scratch that. It was autumn. The leaves were orange and red. Mostly maple. This is supposed to mean something to me, you can tell. But right now, I don’t even remember any of this. This is what has been told me all these years. It’s like the moments which have you experienced as a child been told to you and you nodding fascinated at how little you remember. In my case, how much I have forgotten.


Nana has a thing for cameras. He is the kind of person you would expect to consider every angle of every event as important. He looks at the world not just from his eyes, but from the eyes of every man, woman, child he has ever met.

I can tell you how old he is, what ice-cream the doctor has forbidden him to eat, which car he first sold, why he took me to Germany when I was barely 3 months old and how his laughter reverberates in every ear that happens to witness it.

So today when watching a Pakistani drama with him, he explains the relationship between a boy and girl that I took some years understanding. I can’t tell you what it was in what he said that struck me as different, but I can tell you that I’m proud to be his granddaughter.

His makola.


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