We leave home for strange, wonderful, new lands. And what of that which was left behind? Do we look back with rose colored glasses? Do we build for ourselves imaginary homelands? Maybe, but maybe not. Perhaps it was indeed as wonderful as we remember it to be.


"So, do you speak Pakistan?" or "are you Pakistan?" I have heard both of those incorrectly put questions so often in the last 25 years, that I recoil at telling people where I am from. Undeniably, these questions come from people I have just met, or people who don't have the foggiest notion just where Pakistan is. I once had a homeroom teacher in Grade 6, who in his desire and zeal to make me welcome at my new school, in a new country, introduced me to the class, and walked me over to a very large Mercator Projection of the world. Then, with great fanfare and waving of his pointed stick, he attempted, without much success, to find for the classroom, Pakistan, which he believed to be located at around 150 degrees longitude, and 15 degrees latitude, a few minutes away from Honolulu.)
Sad; but, unfortunately true. I did not know quite how to react to this most American of gaffes, but, in hindsight, I think I did my country proud.
We came to live in Canada in 1972, and with a quick calculation, done without the help of my fingers, I see that I have lived here for more than half my life. All in all, a very lovely, caring, and gentle country. It is, however, bloody cold!! Reciprocally, so is Abbotabad in February.
Memories; we all have them, some are benign, some quite vivid, some happy , some sad, etc, etc. I have many associated with Pakistan, and as we left when I was quite young, some have been coloured with age. I love those colours. The hues are tinged with realism, (most of it real), and some of it the way I think I would have liked it to be. Taken as a whole, my recollection of my life in Pakistan would today be considered as looking at it through rose coloured glasses,( a cliche I have often wanted to use correctly, and I'm not sure if I have) so among my tinted views is the beach. Sandspit. DisneyWorld, couldn't hold a taper to it. I remember a little green wooden, "hut". It was the weekend retreat, and what an expedition that was. Mother, Father, Uncles, Aunts, Friends, Cousins, the whole jing bang lot. Saturday mornings could not come soon enough, the cook, poor bugger was up at dawn making Parsi Poras, a quick stop at Pereira's to buy freshly baked bread. Stop, once again at the Irani Shop to buy a couple of crates of Fanta Orange, ("tastes so good, that it's fun to be thirsty": whoever wrote that should have been kicked out of Marketing class), and off we would go, a convoy of cars, well, maybe three. The ocean, though I have since seen bluer, cleaner, and, (well, maybe not), warmer, is still the most beguiling sight I can remember. The sea was often green, jade-like. Sometimes, an angry brown, the breakers were always there, thundering and crashing down and scattering the crabs on the sand. It is a great memory.
Also vivid, are the memories of my family. It is a large one, and at times, fractious, but the unconditional love and family cohesiveness we enjoyed is not so prevalent in this part of the world. My maternal Grandparents were fortunate enough to enjoy a long life and to see their grandchildren grow up, get married and even see their Great Grandchildren. My paternal grandparents were not as lucky. I remember my father's mother as this soft and gentle person, who would endure myriad silly questions, and boisterous horseplay. I remember when she passed on, I was young, but I remember that the music stopped. Mother explained that it was in her memory, that the music would not be played for a while, I didn't understand it, but I thought that it was the right thing to do.
I have a terrific recollection of the times I spent with my cousins, all of us spoiled, all of us loved, and sometimes out of control. My favourite Aunt returned from England once with the best present a boy could have. Two suits of armour, (plastic), one was the Roman Centurion, given to her son, and one was the Viking, we slashed and killed and died for hours. The unfair part of this was that the Roman Armour had an immense shield, wheras the Viking armour consisted of a small round shield, and I was forever getting killed first. I soon tired of the game. However, I still have the horned Viking helmet.
I remember walking in Murree Hills once with my Uncle and Cousin: we met a tall man with a terrific moustache. He stopped and he and my uncle spoke for a while. He tousled our heads, (mine and my cousin's), gave us both a brand new rupee note and went on his way. I didn't seem to catch on that the kind old gentleman handing out money was Ayub Khan. I now think of that with a thrill.
Last week in Toronto, we had the Sahara Cup, and the "aalloo" incident. I unfortunately, am not a student of the game, nor an ardent voyeur. In fact, I had to be told about this by phone by my cousin in Washington, (the one with the larger shield). Silly bugger probably deserved to get hit with a bat. It is sad that we got trounced, but, there always is a next time. Cricket, being almost a religion in Pakistan, I suppose that everyone watched it.
I remember the India-Pakistan war, was it in '67, or '68 - memories are a fleeting thing. I remember the country parading around and slapping itself on it's collective back. " V for Victory" proclaimed these silly little plastic "V's" which were handed out, (in school colours) by the Parsi School. We were so proud, we had defeated the Indians, we had won the war. Did we??? I am still confused as to the outcome. I suppose history can be rewritten.
So, I suppose the next time someone asks me the inane "are you Pakistan?" I will have to stop and say, "Yes, I am."