An Inward Journey to Pakistan - Part 1

Monday/Tuesday, March 15-16, 1999

8:51 AM GMT

Somewhere over the North Atlantic

Only 2 hours of sleep. It hasn’t been the most comfortable flight. Although the food, service, and entertainment
are not too bad admittedly. Richard Branson knows what he’s doing. Will be meeting Ammi and Abboo at
Heathrow in less than 2 hours from where we’ll fly together to Karachi via Dubai. San Francisco seems so
distant now. All of California does and in fact all of North America seems like a lifetime away. It is amazing
what 9 hours of continuous flying and a Lonely Planet guide can do for the perspective.

My feelings at the moment, as I inch closer to returning to my place of birth after 16 years, can best be
described as apprehensive. A mixture of nostalgia, excitement, fear, and nervousness. What will I feel upon
arrival?

I’m always taking these transcendent journeys, it seems. Not really always. But I’m always planning them
anyhow. I don’t feel tired at all. Impressive considering my “biological” clock just struck 1 AM. Wonder what
time it is in LA? Wonder if she’s asleep or at the hospital? I’m not sure anymore.



Wednesday, March 17

12:25 PM

Mamoo-jaan’s condominium

Clifton, Karachi

My first “real” day in Pakistan, now that the jetlag has more or less dissipated. Feelings are somewhat at a low.
Saima comes to mind all the time. Which is rather annoying since part of the reason for this trip was to forget
about her for a while, if not lessen the intensity of my feelings for her altogether. I find myself seeing Pakistan
through two lenses: my own and hers. What do I think? What would doctor-ji think about this? Today I cut out
two editorials from Dawn Magazine to give to her to read someday. The pretense is friendship, of course, while
the true feelings amaze even me.

I sincerely hope that this present obsession goes away soon so that I may really get into this reunion with
Pakistan. I think I need to go to Northern Pakistan.



Friday, March 19

5:30 pm

Mamoo-jaan’s condominium

Clifton, Karachi

Still at Mamoo Jaan’s apartment in Clifton. And am I in a foul mood or what. Yesterday was much more
pleasant by comparison. Reuniting with cousins and family from dad’s side was joyous and lifting. Ammi seems
ecstatic to be with her brother and her nieces here. Today I refused to attend a wedding ceremony. Where did
all these people come from all of a sudden? I don’t know most of them. I think this girl Mahvish was making
eyes at me. Maybe it was my imagination but I don’t think so. She smiled at me several times while brushing her
long, dark hair (admittedly gorgeous) for at least 15 minutes getting ready for the wedding. Her parents are
being unusually saccharine towards me as well.

Pressures of matrimony abound. I am feeling quite conflicted about my culture, my values, my everything. I
shouldn’t have come to Pakistan. Maybe some more “quality” time w/ the cousins will fix the situation. Hapless
as it is. I need to get out of this apartment.



Midnight

Monday, March 22, 1999

Avari Towers Hotel

Metropole, Karachi

Finally in my room and oh-so-comfortable. This will probably cause a scandal of major proportions in the family.
Why should I share a room with my parents in a cramped apartment when I will be so much more comfortable
in a centrally located hotel, fer crissakes. Saima came to mind today (surprise, surprise) and I immediately
visualized her. Her smile. Her eyes. Her form.

Meeting my cousins, Saba and Farah, was quite the unexpected, pleasant, surprise. Do women really hug their
grown-up male cousins in this culture? I’m not complaining. Are these two beautiful women really the awkward
girls I used to play with growing up? I found myself thinking that if I were to marry a Pakistani girl, ideally she
would be a combination of the two sisters. Alas, they are both married. But I hope to become good friends with
them. (I was reminded how upset Saba got when, at age 9, I pointed to a tampon ad in a magazine and asked
her what it was. Today she joked about it). Still constantly amazed by how genuinely friendly and sincere my
relatives are. I am still very conflicted about this marriage situation. I know Saima is not the one. But why can’t
I get her out of my mind? 13,000 miles away and still close to my heart.

I close my eyes and see her smiling, head titled slightly. “Let’s go already, Kamran. The cab’s waiting outside.”
Rainy day in Los Angeles. The drizzle doesn’t prevent us from visiting the J. Paul Getty museum. The
Velasquez retrospective she’s been wanting to see opens today. I’m dressed to the hilt in the pin-stripe 3-piece
suit I bought in SF specifically for this occasion. She’s dressed to the nines in her stunning navy blue evening
gown. I can smell her scent. We walk slowly, hand-in-hand, across the myriad galleries and gardens in that
dreamlike building. “I love birds-of-paradise, did you know that, Kamran?” “No, I didn’t, Saims, but now I’ll
never forget it.”



Midnight

Tuesday, March 23, 1999

Avari Towers Hotel

Karachi

An exhausting day. I know I could not ever be happy living in Karachi again. Of all the events that took place
today, foremost in my mind is the macabre monkey show. A man was yanking a noose tied tightly around an
obviously tortured monkey to coax him to dance. For money. The kids were loving it. If only the ASPCA or
PETA could see what I saw. Turns your stomach and breaks your heart at the same time. What is this
monkey-man to do? He has to put food on the table for his poor family too. Here I am in my 5-star hotel
moralizing for him. I hate this world sometimes. I expect to feel this feeling many more times on this trip.

Met with Saba’s family and Farah’s as well. I guess the love affair’s over. Although I do enjoy their company
quite a bit. Which is more than I can say for Majid bhai. What a bore!

Everyday in Karachi has been a unique experience so far. Some bad but mostly good. I really think moving into
this hotel was a good idea. I need my introspective moments. Especially on this trip. Still thinking of Saima. All
the girls I’ve met in Karachi so far make me want her all the more. I’m living simultaneously in two time zones:
Pakistan and Pacific Standard. She must be on her lunch break right about now. It is actually very difficult for
me not to call her from my hotel room. It is a deliberate act. To not call. Not shopping for her is also a
conscious, very conscious, decision. The perfume she mentioned she wanted to buy was selling at Agha’s
Market today. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t do it.



11:23 pm

Wednesday, March 24, 1999

Avari Towers Hotel

Karachi

Another day in Karachi has passed. Writing is becoming easier and easier. Do I write for myself or for
someone else? Do feelings evoke prose or is it the other way around? Saima Books. Saima Complex. Saima
Chowk. (Saima psychosis is more like it...hey, that alliterates). The name, it seems, is fairly popular in Karachi.
Some days are easier than others. Then all at once a stinging pain accompanies her memory. Not happy with
the way I look. Not happy with the way I feel. Sometimes I think of...do I dare say it? What would Prashanth
think? (To think had I lived in Pakistan all my life, it is most improbable that I would have any Indian friends). I
can’t even write the word.

Other times, all is well and good. These damn Pakistanis. So unsophisticated. So crude. I’m one of them now.
Or have I always been? I am quite impressed with the unselfish nature of my relatives but I don’t trust them
completely either. I guess I have changed too much. Or as they might say, too Americanized.

It seems all they show on TV in this hotel is Indian stations. Z-TV, Star-TV, MTV-Asia, it’s all Indian. Who is
this chick oohing and aahing? Preity Zinta. Never heard of her. Doesn’t even look Indian. She reminds me of
Sue. The night I lost my virginity. Her breathy whisper, “I want you inside me now,” still resonates after a
decade. Lost youth. At 28, I feel like an old man.

Women. Womankind. Ecstasy and torment.



6:26 pm

Thursday, March 25, 1999

Hawkes Bay beach

Karachi

The water seems less blue than I remember as a child. Ironic. The Arabian Sea stretches out in front of me.
The Arabian Sea. How exotic that sounds.

Tis a strange thing, this life. It can change a man several times. So in fact that when he looks at who he used to
be he sees a complete stranger. This is how I feel today. Often lately. I knew that coming to Pakistan would not
be easy. It is proving to be more difficult than I ever could have anticipated. And it is all internal conflicts. Who
am I? What are my responsibilities? To myself? To my parents? To my siblings? I don’t know anymore. Seeing
my father today at Aga Khan Hospital was so difficult. Ammi thinks that it’s the heat that’s doing this to him.
He’s not used to it anymore. I felt strangely guilty for dragging him to Pakistan with me. It was meant to be a
gift, this vacation, to my parents. Both of them wanted to come with me. For a long time now. So I brought
them. I suppose it wasn’t completely altruistic. I wanted their company. I know they won’t be around forever.
And then all I’ll have will be these simple memories.

I want a life partner. Right now I want Saima to be her. But Saima being Saima can’t be her. I know this all too
well. Saima, at the present, is more a concept of my wishes than she is an actual person. She represents the
fulfillment of my chase. My capricious reveries. Truth be told, however, I see her weaknesses. She hasn’t
showed any “real” concern or affection for me in a long time. Do I really want someone like that? Saima seems
more concerned about herself, her needs, her career, her damned residency, than anything or anyone else. So
why am I so wrapped up with her? It has more to do with me than with her. I’m in love with a vision. A mirage.

I need to stick to my resolution of not contacting her for at least a month. Need this time off to gauge her
reaction. Can I do it?

Desire...is ultimately suffering. I think it was Schopenhauer who said that. I’m sure of it.



11:13 pm

Friday, March 26, 1999

Avari Towers Hotel

Karachi

Slowly settling into the life here. Karachi doesn’t seem all that alien anymore. Then of course there was the
bizarre incident of unsuccessfully ordering beer to my hotel room. What’s even stranger is that it wasn’t even
for me but for my muslim cousin and his muslim friend. But it was ultimately my muslim name that kept the
order from being filled here in this muslim owned and operated hotel in the Islamic Republic of Pakistan. How
very muslim to refuse to serve alcohol to an ex-muslim for his muslim guests. Is this reality warped or what?
(And they ask me why I drink.) I felt quite conflicted about ordering in the first place. These 22-year old kids
asking me for beer. I guess they thought their American cousin can get it for them. For what? (If they had
brought me a joint, maybe.)

Alcohol hasn’t been an issue for me for a long time but it became a big one today. I’m secretly thankful that it
wasn’t procured or consumed in my presence. I don’t want any part in “corrupting” these kids. Why do I think
Zeeshan will want alcohol again in Northern Pakistan?

I remember as we were leaving the theater I asked how she felt about a scene in “The wings of the dove” and
she blew up at me. “Why does everything revolve around my feelings? Why are you analyzing me all the time?”
“It was just a question, Saims. Wanted to know how you felt about a scene I found particularly touching. That’s
all.” We drove to the Maui Beach Club in Westwood in complete silence. And we ate in complete silence. What
a way to spend Valentine’s Day. I was so angry with her but didn’t say anything. It took 4 vodka martinis to
calm my tumultuous emotions. “I didn’t know you drank,” she said. “You do now,” my short response. Next
thing I remember was Saima pulling the comforter on me as I drifted off to sleep. And when I flew off to San
Francisco the next morning without waking her, I remember her frantic, worried messages on my answering
machine when I arrived in my apartment. She cared then. There was no denying it.



11:50 pm

Sunday, March 28, 1999

Avari Towers Hotel

Karachi

Hot. Hot. Hot. Karachi is sweltering today. And the air-conditioning in this god-damned, luxury hotel in on the
blink. Rs. 6000 per night for this. But I’m strangely humored by it all. This is so Pakistan. I’m home. Hot. It’s so
hot. It is the kind of heat that seeps deep into the body. I finally broke down and sent Saima a postcard. Blame it
on the heat. Which I figure she’ll receive in about a month since last contact.

Saw my childhood home today (C-165 Block C, North Nazimabad; I actually still remember the address). Even
went inside. A sweet feeling. No pain or remorse. Just sweet nostalgia. The lemon tree was gone. As was the
swing in the inside lawn. It was good to be there with Abboo. Wonder what he was feeling having architected
this dream house of his nearly a quarter century ago? I could tell he was pleased to see it even if it was ever so
briefly. The present owner actually gave us a tour. This was impressive considering he had no idea of who we
were and all he had was our word to go on. Had to be the highlight of my Karachi experiences so far.



Monday, March 29, 1999

Avari Towers Hotel

Karachi

Dear Laura,


Hot. It is sweltering in Karachi today. The kind of heat that one experiences in a steam-room, the kind where
the steam penetrates deep into your body and you feel the warmth of your blood. Record breaking heat, they’re
saying. So many records being broken in my witness. Along with the aforementioned heat, I also experienced a
record breaking traffic jam (I was caught in a 4 hour jam from Defence to North Nazimabad). Today also
marked a Karachi record of most murders in a single day (19 in gang-related violence). So I can’t leave my
hotel due to the resulting citywide curfew.

I’ve acclimated though. It feels as if I never left. Sometimes. Other times it feels as if I’m watching a movie.
Karachi can sometimes seem an irrational dream. It has a funk if any city ever had a funk. I’m into it now. The
first few days were rough. Reverse culture shock is the simplistic explanation. Pakistan is definitely in the Third
Word. That hit home pretty fast once I exited the comparatively immaculate Quaid-i-Azam International
Airport. I couldn’t believe I actually lived, let alone grew up, here. I was uncomfortable and a bit scared frankly.
The smog, the heat, the unbelievable traffic. And people. People everywhere you look. It was just as I had
envisioned Calcutta. Not Karachi. Not my Karachi. On my third day of arrival, I seriously contemplated
returning to the US. Then I reconsidered. And I’m glad for my decision.

Reuniting with most of my long lost cousins was so wonderful. Most of them are married and have kids of their
own. One distant cousin, Farah, has blossomed into a spectacularly beautiful woman. I never knew a woman
could look so shapely in shalwar-kameez. Alas, she’s been married since she was 21 (six years earlier) to a
handsome lawyer. He’s actually a very nice guy and therefore deflects any jealousy on my part. There seems to
be a lot of interest in how much money I make and whether I have girlfriend(s) in the US. I’ve decided that
Pakistanis are in general quite sexually repressed (this excludes the writer, of course). And nosy. One of my
cousins bluntly asked me how much I pulled in every month. In dollars, not rupees, she clarified. Can you
believe?

The pressure to marry is intense here. And not just by the ‘rents either. All my relatives and cousins seem to
think the time is now. And I mean literally now! While I’m on vacation. My US citizenship seems to make me a
desirable catch. That I’m staying in a posh hotel (not by international standards, mind you) for the past 10 days
seems to intrigue them all the more. It was the only way for me to maintain my sanity, Laura. It allowed me to
entertain my long-lost cousins for reunions at my leisure and on my terms. No more being force-fed 18 different
entrees twice a day at a different relative’s house. This showering of affection is good for my ego (which as
you know is already of phenomenal proportions) but I’m taking it with a healthy dose of skepticism.

True love, with all the hype about the success of arranged marriages over love marriages, is just as fleeting here
as in the US. Truth is, Laura, and I couldn’t even begin to communicate this to my Pakistani cousins, that in 16
long years in the US, my perspective and beliefs have altered so significantly that I couldn’t imagine a traditional
Pakistani (whatever that means) wedding/marriage to save my life. Not that my relatives and cousins are privy
to this. They all seem quite impressed with how little I’ve changed (except in appearance) in 16 years. I do not
seem very much Americanized at all, they say, and my Urdu is convincingly good, they also say. I must admit it
is somewhat enjoyable to be a chameleon, knowing deep down how absurd and unacceptable the
Pakistani/Islamic (one and the same for most purposes) ways are to me. But I never show it. I play the good
cousin/nephew very well.

Other weird things: the traffic and associated smog in Karachi are unbelievably awful. The streets are
overcrowded with people (population of the city is between 12-15 million, I’m told). Shanty-towns are prevalent
alongside the main thoroughfares. I get police escorts often, thanks to an “uncle” who’s a big shot in the police
department (he does absolutely nothing all day in his office except bark obscenities and orders to his sycophantic
underlings). Walking or driving around with armed guard is a feeling that takes a little getting used to. But it
happens soon enough. Corruption is everywhere. It has infiltrated every profession and government department.
Also very disturbing but less so as you get into it, so to speak. In many ways, I see no hope for this country, no
future. The only plausible argument I’ve heard so far that seems mildly optimistic is that it took the US nearly
200 years to achieve prosperity. Pakistan by comparison is only 50 years old. Cruising the streets of Karachi, I
feel a myriad of emotions ranging from sweet nostalgia (Tusso’s ice cream parlor, PIDC paanhouse, Hydery’s
chaathouses) to out and out revulsion. Sanitation and hygiene, it appears, have gone much further South in the
last 16 years than I would have hoped or expected. A popular TV comedy show in the 70’s called “Fifty-fifty”
used to hurl insults at the Karachi Municipal Corporation. Don’t know if this organization still exists but if it does,
it really deserves the invectives now.

In 2 weeks I’ve caught up with just about everyone I wanted to see. Most of my childhood friends, I discovered,
have emigrated either to the US or Canada. I went to see my old neighborhood with my father yesterday. Saw
the house in which I grew up. We were actually invited inside for a “blast-from-the-past” tour by the present
owners. Most Pakistanis (I am rediscovering) are incredibly hospitable and well-meaning people. As a related
thought, I see their plight as an unfortunate repercussion of the system in which they are mired. Perhaps it will
all get better someday. But not in their time.

I even went to my old school (grades 1-8) and took a photograph. I closed my eyes briefly and imagined running
around the schoolyard with Aniba Qamar, my first crush, as she teased and flirted with me (yes, even at ages
10-13, girls mature quickly but then you know all about that). Childhood memories that are brought back by
surroundings are strongly intoxicating. I had an impulse to conduct a citywide search for Aniba. If I found her
(less than likely) and she’s unmarried (plain impossible) I’d marry her and bring her back with me. What a total
flight of fancy, eh? (Did I ever tell you how grateful I am that you and I have been able to establish a real
friendship after our breakup? Well, if I haven’t, let me say now that I am...ever so grateful for it).

The food is so good, Laura, and we are feasting daily (effects of which I will be working off for months to come
probably). Meals and eating are a crucial part of socializing in Pakistan. Everyone has to stuff himself in order to
feel good. I’m being unsympathetic here. Good feelings surround us no matter which set of relatives we visit. I
have managed to avoid getting sick so far, thanks to the sensible warnings in the Lonely Planet guide. Which by
the way was a great tip from you. I have learned more about my native country from that book than I ever
knew before. It has given a new depth to my trip and made it far more interesting as a result. Although, you’re
well-familiar with India, you really owe it to yourself to see Pakistan, a very different country.

I’m heading for Northern Pakistan tomorrow with my parents and a cousin who wants to show me around. I
plan to visit Islamabad, Muree, Gilgit (take the Karakoram Highway to the China border; could be a precarious
journey from which I may never return, but I’m prepared for that), and Lahore. Most of these places I’ve never
visited before. Will try to write again as time and conditions permit. In any case, hope you’re well, and that this
letter gets to you (this wishful thought is also a luxury we take for granted in the good ol’ USofA). I also hope
this letter assuages any lingering gripes about my not being good about writing well-thought-out letters. Good
luck with the dissertation. You’ll be Doctor Laura soon enough.

Love and kisses,

Kamran.


p.s. As my Urdu has improved (very quickly in fact) my English has deteriorated, signs of which you’ll
undoubtedly see in this letter.

p.p.s. I’ve decided to forgo London on the return trip for 4 more days in Pakistan.

p.p.p.s. Oh, and also, I’ve thought about Saima once or twice this trip.




Tuesday, March 30, 1999

Feroza phoopo’s house

6 AM

Ah, chai. I’ve come to love it once again. Who needs coffee when you’ve got chai? Can’t believe I’ll be flying
PIA again after 22 years! This should be an experience. Onward to Islamabad. I’d like to leave Saima behind in
Karachi. But I don’t think she’ll stay. Especially since I’m heading for her native Lahore. The obsessive mind. It
never rests. I’ve gone mad. Quite mad. I’m certain of it.