When I went home, the rest of my packing was easy—I’d kept only two outfits. When Padar found this out, he beamed. I could tell he was proud of us. If I could have, I would have given my friends all of my belongings. I was on my way to see Mommy. I had everything I needed.
We rose in the early morning while the city was quiet and hauled our luggage from our apartment to the curb, where a cabbie waited to take us to the train station. It took an entire day and night and into the next morning to reach central Karachi. We ate and slept on the train as it rattled south, making innumerable stops along the way. When our taxi finally pulled into the driveway of a beautiful three-story home with big wooden doors, my exhaustion vanished. Every window was lit up like they were waiting for us. Padar jumped out, strode up to the front door, and rang the bell. We all piled out of the back seat, glad to stretch our legs, and followed him. A gentleman dressed in all white answered with his two daughters behind him. The two men hugged, then ushered us all into the warm light of the home. The man in white with a wide smile and neatly combed black hair leaned toward me. “Hello, little one, my name is Abbas.”
He asked each of us our names, and we each said salaam in greeting. His daughters, Habibah and Daliyah, greeted us as honored guests. Habibah was in her twenties, and Daliyah was around eighteen. They both had long brown hair worn in a single braid, tan skin, and hospitable brown eyes. They took us on a tour of the house, which was huge and colorful, like it had come right out of an Indian movie. The first things I noticed were the windows: they were made of stained glass in blue, pink, and green, and they were tall, like in a church, with flowing, gold curtains. One big room had windows all over, and they were all open, so I felt like I was in a room with no walls. Another room downstairs had a swing set hanging from the ceiling. Over the weeks we stayed here, I spent a lot of time swinging.
In the backyard was another room: a building, separate from the house, that wasn’t on our tour. We knew they wanted us to stay away. My hosts were so pleasant and kind, I decided to rein in my inquisitiveness.
Each morning four servants served us a breakfast of eggs, bread, potatoes, and tea. Each evening we had an elaborate dinner with many courses: lamb, beef, chicken, and vegetables and rice, rich with spices—turmeric, brown and green cardamom, cinnamon, and black pepper—all served by the well-dressed servants, who could have been waiting on kings and queens. We were pampered, fed, clothed, and looked after like we were part of the family. Habibah and Daliyah were particularly warm and caring, very much like their father, who radiated peace and kindness.
In the afternoons, I spent time in the room with the swing, relaxing and reading and talking with my sisters and Zia. Padar spent his days with Abbas. They seemed to have a lot to talk about, because those two were always together.
One afternoon the two sisters called in their driver to take us four kids to a bazaar. It was very different from the one I’d seen in Peshawar—this was more like a big outlet mall. They bought us Pakistani dresses called Punjabi with bangles and earrings to match. We were in heaven. The second we arrived home, I ran to the room I shared with Laila to try them on. Then Habibah drew on my palms with henna. I floated in a world of ease filled with simple pleasures.
I was being treated like a princess, but Youssef, Muzghan, and Sophia from the refugee camp were never far from my thoughts. Their laughter, playful shouts, grimy faces, and their aspirations to escape from the muddy, smelly life in tents all mingled in my thoughts while Habibah drew on my palm, the soft, warm strokes of the brush sending chills of comfort through me. This dream, for I knew it as one, couldn’t last. For nearly a year, I had run with my friends through the muddy lanes of a rambling tent city and lived on crusts of bread and milk with my sisters and Zia in a tiny hotel room, always teetering on the very edge of a fierce hunger. That seemed to be the world most people lived in every day of their lives. Abbas’s daughters’ care and solicitude couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t happen again, that my life wouldn’t turn from this sunny way of living into one of sleeping on cold dirt with nothing but a chador to cover me. I tried to push the real world out of my thoughts and enjoy this pristine house of servants and bright colors every minute I could.
One morning I rose early, before even my hosts, and padded downstairs. The dawn twilight slowly merged into a new day. Through the large window of the family room, I spotted the white one-story house in the large backyard. Several men I hadn’t seen before walked up a stone path and disappeared inside.
My curiosity overcame me. Even though I knew I shouldn’t go, I stole outside and followed the stone path to the wide-open door of the building. The room was large and filled with people silently seated on prayer mats. In the middle of the room, an old man sat cross-legged on several cushions, his eyes closed as if he were meditating. The men and women surrounding him were deep in prayer. Among them, I noticed Padar. He sat in the front, next to the old man, praying. I waited by the door, taking in what they were doing. Soon they stirred to leave, and many of them approached the old man in the center and kissed his hand before turning to the door.
I’d never seen so many people, even in the great mosque of Kabul where we had gone to pray, pay one man so much respect. I knew this man must be holy. There was a sense of peace and love in the room. They had all touched something higher, apprehended something peculiar that drove my curiosity. Questions fired through my mind. As I watched the people with contented glows on their faces stream by me, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the gentle smile of Abbas’s wife.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said. “This is for adults who come here to ask for their sins to be forgiven. That is Jaleel, a very holy man, and he prays for them.” She took my hand and led me back into the house.
All day I wondered what sins Padar had asked forgiveness for. Maybe he felt bad about his drinking and his fighting with Mother and the stress his behavior had had on all of us. The sight of Padar reverently approaching Jaleel made me wonder what made the man so holy.
I wanted to discuss this more with Padar, but it seemed every day when I tried to find him, he was either meeting with Abbas and Jaleel or they had left the house. We all knew he was working hard to find a way to get our passports. With so much at stake, whether we would be able to travel to India, it didn’t seem right that we spent all day swinging in the indoor play room, reading, playing games, and eating lavish meals, but there wasn’t much else to do but to enjoy myself. Besides, Padar had not given any of us one shred of doubt that he would get the documents we needed. Week blended into week, and it seemed like we were going to stay here forever.
One night after dinner, Padar sat with us in the large living room, where my sisters and Zia were gathered to read poetry. We behaved as if we had moved in. “Aren’t they tired of us yet?” I asked.
Padar crossed his legs and brushed back a shock of black hair. “In our culture we never tell our guests to leave. Our religion requires we take care of the less fortunate. These people are my good friends, and this is what friends do—we take care of one another when we are in need. Abbas knows I would do the same for him and his family any day if he were in my shoes.”
I asked him, “What do you mean if he wore your shoes?” I couldn’t imagine Abbas wearing Padar’s shoes.