I am sitting in the departure lounge of Karachi airport, waiting for boarding to begin my first leg: Karachi-Dubai.

There are a number of labourers travelling alone, going back to their jobs after visiting their families.

There are others; Pakistanis with foreign passports, who are going back with their families after paying a visit to their parents or in-laws. They are better dressed and are walking by with an exaggerated swagger, some have a hint of a smug smile.

Between the two categories, I clearly fall in the latter one. However, I lack the swagger ... and the smile. I want to sit down, away from the crowd and ... cry.

Duct-taped emotions

 

I have always found ‘leaving’ a very painful thing to do, so I discouraged my parents to accompany me to the airport. However, exchanging Khuda Hafizes at home, too, became an ordeal; despite my attempts at making it easy with a tale of some silly event, meant to be funny. My parents smiled weakly, though my mother looked lost in some other world.

She recovered in time to say she had put some bangles and two cones of henna in my suitcase for her granddaughter, whom she saw several years ago; and two cotton pyjama bottoms for me, which she had sewn herself.

I had bought cricket bats for my boys, which were not wrapped. My dad found a roll of duct-tape and helped my brother to secure them, before reminding me that I had forgotten to take him for his hearing test, and that he would go with me now when I next returned.

I learned some years ago that leaving everything for the last minute helps, as the anxiety and panic of missing the flight displaces the sadness of leaving your parents, whom you don't know if you will see again and even if you will, under what circumstances – would they be able to light up with joy on seeing you; would they be able to smile, stand up and hug you anymore? My parents are entering that age where the effort required for everyday actions has become exhausting.