Bekhudi || √

2. Memories || یادیں

It was around midday, when the pilot announced our arrival at the Lahore airport; my stomach twisted as an unknown feeling enveloped me. Afternoons are probably the worst time to arrive. The large glass windows of the airport allowed the summer heat to reflect off the glossy brown tiles, as I, along with the rest of the passengers, sprinted towards the counters. It was a short walk, but the heat was enough to work a glossy shine on my forehead while the salty droplets of sweat trickled down my neck. I felt suffocated.

Fortunately, the feeling tapered when I heard the muffled sound of my name being called out from at a distance. I turned around to see a frantic man scurrying towards me from amidst the crowd of passengers, waving his hands animatedly in an attempt to grab my attention. The corner of my mouth twisted in a slight curve, as I miserably failed to suppress my laugh at the quizzical sight in front of me. Moments later, the man stood in front of me and introduced himself as the new personal assistant of my mother, whose schedule today included chaperoning me from the airport back home.

Of course! How could I forget. Needless to say, it barely took us a few moments to get out of the airport, into the waiting car and swiftly out of the airport premises.

Since the failed assassination attempt on my uncle at the airport, some eight years ago, my family has been wary of airports and public places in general. Not that we had the luxury of unrestricted movement to begin with, but this episode was the final nail in the coffin before whatever remaining freedom I had was clipped away under the guise of security.

My family has been a part of the Pakistani political arena for well over five decades now, but it wasn't until Dada Jaan was elected as the Chief Minister of Punjab, that the Malik Khandaan finally rose to eminence. What started off as an opportunity to further our already well established business empire, became a game of greed, power, ambition and a never ending lust for more!

Following my grandfather's footsteps, both my Dad and Taya Abu followed suit. Shortly after his tenure  as Chief Minister ended, Dada Jaan resigned from the ruling party and announced the establishment of his own party. And that was the beginning of this rat race for wealth and power.

Dada Jaan's charms worked its magic on the masses, who were quick to rally around the new party promising change. Dada Jaan's dream of forming a political dynasty was finally taking root. Ironic, since we live in a democracy yet a few powerful families continue to dominate the politics of this country.

I was in my early teens when Dada Jaan resigned and Taya Abu was introduced as the new party president, while Dad continued to take care of the Malik Group of Companies. Our businesses have diversified interests from banking to steel mills. My brother Zayan and cousin Shahzad also help look after the family business while Zaroon, Taya Abu's eldest son, helps with the everyday party affair.

Sometimes I wish I was man, at least I'd have the freedom my brother and cousins enjoyed. The freedom to work, the freedom to take their own decisions, the freedom to walk away from scandals unscathed, the freedom to not be answerable to anyone for anything. But despite what I wished for, the reality remained, I was woman born in a man's world. A world that reeked of patriarchy and male privilege.

It sickens me every time, when unlike my brothers, I have to ask Dada Jaan or Dad permission for inconsequential things. I scoff at the memory of Dada Jaan throwing at fit, when I voiced my desire to work as a research assistant at a university abroad. It took me several weeks to finally convince him to allow me to leave, albeit to Karachi. It wasn't like my family is particularly fond of me or concerned to keep me near, it was but their honour they were worried about. An honour so fragile, that it rested on the actions of the women of the family.

I sometimes wonder, why no one in the family was concerned about the family's honour and reputation when the men of family were involved in murder cases and sex scandals. Why are the wrongdoings of men in our circle brushed under the rug as political allegations but women are persecuted to protect the facade of honour our families have so carefully curated. 

A sigh escapes my lips at the memories of the past fog my mind and a sinking feeling deepens in my stomach. I peeked outside the tinted glass windows to see the traffic dwindling away, as we turn towards the long silent road. Our car made its steady way towards our destination and I took in the scenery of the lush green fields. The serenity of the place almost taking a meditative quality. Shortly the huge iron gates came into view and a few guards rushed to push them open. As the wheels of our car turned effortlessly along the alleyway, the huge Haveli finally made its appearance.

It was time to come back home.

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