The Gardens

I was going to visit Pakistan after…….Ooo, what felt like one hundred years. Actually, it was four years. Such was my excitement, and has been the same over the years. That I have aged a lot does not seem to make much difference.

Our seats booked, we reached O’Hare airport. The terminal was as usual crowded with Indian and Pakistani passengers. Their luggage, for the PIA (Pakistan International Airlines) flight, was almost spilling out of their carts. We went through the indignity of having to remove shoes, outer clothes and accessories before proceeding onwards. There were more checkpoints and more searches, but that price had to be paid for the pleasure of going home.

The flight was pleasant, as always. Passengers looked relieved to be out of O’Hare. Most were Indian and Pakistani and did not have to keep a stern exterior, something almost mandatory in the American society. They relaxed in their seats and spoke to each other regardless of whether they knew them. Often new friendships develop and old associates are discovered whenever Indians and Pakistanis get together. PIA served its trademark excellent cuisine. The long twenty-two hour flight passed without a hitch.

The new Lahore airport was a pleasant surprise in its beauty and design. It combined the serenity of Islamic architecture with the modern.

Relatives, cousins and friends from my college days were there when I checked out. Because my visit was after the attack on Iraq, a couple of them came forward, put garlands around my neck and said, with meaningful glances, “We are in shock and awe at seeing you. Welcome from America.”

A cousin raised his hands in mock surrender and said, “I promise, I have no weapons.”

We had a great laugh, got into the cars and drove, everyone talking at the same time. It was so much like when we used to come on vacation from college. I was in Salima’s car, whom I was meeting after a long time. We had been together since early school and were very close.

She dropped me at my parents’ house so that I could pay my respects, unpack and relax. She called the next day and said, “So; refreshed?”

“Yes, when do we meet? I have to catch up on everything. Which of our friends are still here and who has moved? And what are the latest fights, quarrels, affairs etc.?”

“I will pick you up whenever you want. Let us start with Bagh-e-Jinnah, our favorite haunt.”

“Oh, you mean the Lawrence Gardens.”

“No, Bagh-e-Jinnah, Jinnah’s Garden, the founder of Pakistan. Remember, it has been renamed? You will see many more plants because now it is a botanical garden too.”

“I know what Bagh-e-Jinnah means. But we have always known it as Lawrence Garden and that is what we will call it.”

“Come off it, you white man’s slave. That was the name given by the British. Now we are free. No wonder you are still living in the U.S.”

“You know I am there to be with family. It is anything but slavery.”

“Ok, ok; be that as it may. When do we go to the garden?”

“Lets’ go tomorrow. Some relatives are coming for tea today. I will find out who got married, who didn’t, see the new babies and find out all that is going on. I am looking forward to meeting some old aunts and uncles.”

“Tomorrow it is then. I will call you before I come.”

The next day she came to pick me up after lunch and drove through all the familiar roads that we used to take when we ditched classes to go to the garden. Same roads, same buildings but something had changed. The roads were very crowded and seemed much narrower with cars, trucks, motor rickshaws, all blowing their horns in different tunes. Donkey carts created a hazard in the already chaotic traffic. Kiosks had sprung up on the sides selling everything from newspapers to clothes, shoes, toys and food. Most of the majestic old mansions looked deserted and neglected. Some were being torn down to make way for plazas.

“Whatever happened to the old Lahore? Such chaos,” I said.

“This is progress. Don’t you love it? The government announced an easy loan plan and now almost everyone seems to own a car. Gradually, the traffic will be all right. There is a lot of foreign investment giving employment to many.”

“Yes…….maybe it is progress. But it is meddling with our history and culture. Why are all the mansions being torn down? Whatever happened to the inmates?”

“Fortune hunters like you ran away and the older people could not bear the cost of maintenance. Slaves………..all of you.”

“Shut up. I am not a fortune hunter. But I love your pleasant cynicism.”
“I know.”

We arrived at the garden, parked the car and proceeded on foot. It was a jewel of a garden made by the British exclusively for their own enjoyment. (Something like the Green Zone in Baghdad.) No “natives” were allowed. As we entered, I saw the beautiful Gymkhana building. Occasionally a nabob or maharaja was honored enough to be invited in that club for whites only. Now, that building is the Quai-e-Azam library, a fitting conversion.

I breathed in the clean fragrant air as I saw the winding roads and paths disappearing behind hills and trees. The garden had not changed at all, no progress seen there. It was the fall season and flowers were so plentiful they were almost boiling out of the soil. I saw many more exotic and rare plants.

We were quiet. There was no need to talk. Past and present seemed to be fused together. It was as if we were playing truant again. We followed the familiar path threading our way through flowerbeds shrubs and trees, taking in the scenery and inhaling the delicious scent and reached the hill we always went to. The view was breathtaking.

It was a small hill, a sort of bump in the land. The mud path which took a couple of turns before it went up behind the hill, was the only place not covered with green. Trees and bushes dotted lush grass. In front of us, from the bottom to halfway up the hill was a large curvy area full of narcissus plants. In each plant, stiff spiky leaves surrounded a single stem with a crown of five or six flowers, some bent but a couple looking straight up. Wit its yellow cup center surrounded by delicate white petals; Eastern poets have called narcissus the eye of a damsel waiting for her lover.

Flowers swayed in the soft breeze, spreading their heady sweetish fragrance. The afternoon sun showered little diamonds of light through tree branches. There was intense activity going on in the trees, with birds chirping and chasing each other. They were busy deciding their place to sleep for the night.

I closed my eyes to preserve that sight to take back with me, then looked at Salima. She had a hand on her chest, eyes closed and open mouth to take in all the fragrance. She said, “Haaaaaaaaa,” as she inhaled. Then all of a sudden, “Akhhhhhh, what was that?” as she blew her breath out.

By that time the pungent, putrid odor of death had reached us. Much as we wanted to take in the sweet aroma, that dark bitter horrible smell made it all but impossible to breathe and bang; we came back to reality.
“It must be a dead animal,” she said. “I bet we can’t find it. And what would we do even if we did.”

“Let’s follow our routine and have some nice kebab and tea at the cafeteria.”

Progress was visible there too. Burgers, pizza and nachos had been added to the menu. We had tea with kebabs and cake pieces. I was mostly quiet as we made small talk. Salima was giving me time to reminisce and absorb that day’s memories for when I would need them most. In America.