Sheep in wolves clothing

Lahore: the city that never sleep. My city of saints, my city of sinners.
I am back. For that annual homecoming rite that is a two-week passage of both chaos and excitement, of exaggerated expectations and serendipitous surprises, familiar exhaustion of too much, and too little family.

Of paradoxes and mixed emotions.

I am home. Every trip the potholes seem deeper, the traffic wilder, the energy crisis more critical...the corruption unconquerable. And yet, no where in the world do the crows crow like they do here. Or the trees on the canal, play with the winter sunlight. No where do oranges and mandarins grow the same earthy smell like a second skin... and no where are the electricity cuts with candles as romantic as here. Throw in a thunderstorm and this place is my version of heaven.

If I was an eloquent Pakistani expatriate, I would write a poem worthy of this place; of my convoluted devotion, adoration and obsession juxtaposed with hatred, despair and apathy for here. But I am just me, limited by words and unfortunately by imagination. I struggle at the best of times.

The overwhelming desire to return, come home and be done with the rest of the world -- for better or worse -- tugs on the heartstrings the second you walk and breathe that familiar smell of home. When the flights are smooth and on time, the feeling is even more compelling!
But then you do the obligatory runs of meetings, meals. Running behind the clock with an agenda weighing you down. The politics of propaganda, the passivity of parents and the parroting of passions gets to you. You are obliged to fall into queue to get onto the busy highway of action that dictates everybody's life here... and unlike you envisioned, when planning this trip home, you become an item on someone's 'To Do', list and not the list, the page, the book, the universe itself.

Cest la vie. I plan to enjoy the now. The 'this'. The heater humming in the background and the electricity threatening darkness any second; I will enjoy the planning of a truly Pakistani meal at Ashraf's in Main Market, Salt n' Pepper and of ice cream at Robbiya's, EVEN if it bears no fruit; I will enjoy the weak morning sun peaking through the curtains and of the joy of family leaning on your shoulder with no conversation. Of brothers providing melancholic guitar strumming to family gossip, old grandparents with news on extra high volume and all conversations on repeat for the words unheard through ageing ears; few clothes choices; even flus and colds.

It's worth it. All this and more.