Today I would have been in Pakistan, sitting in the lawn on a sunny afternoon, savoring a cup of Kashmiri Chai with my sister Neena, and bouncing my two-year old grandnephew on my arthritic knee. We would have been catching up on family happenings while feasting over fresh-off-the-tawa chappati and steaming goat curry.
But it didn’t happen.
Yesterday my husband and I would have landed at Islamabad airport in Pakistan in the wee hours of the morning—2:00 a.m.—and walked down the metal stairway inhaling the warm air, gotten into the waiting green and beige bus, rode to the international arrivals terminal, and lined up in the Ladies Line at immigration—which moves faster than the men’s line (husbands are allowed to join their wives in the Ladies Line). The woman in green uniform at the counter would have flipped through the pages of my passport, looking for the ‘Visa’ stamp, taken my photograph, stamped my passport, and gestured to my husband for his. Another look at our passports by the guard at baggage claim, and then the coolies in their shalwar qameez would have come running to grab our carry ons and rush to the carousel. We would have stepped out into the crowded arrivals area: men, women, children, cramming to catch sight of an emerging loved one. I’d spot Neena, she’d give me a tight hug, and as I’d make my way through the hundreds of people, I’d inhale the scent of poverty. I’d tip the coolie, Neena’s driver would load the bags, and off we’d go.
But it didn’t happen.
“As soon as we get home, I am taking a nap.” I would have said to Neena.
“What about breakfast?”
“I need to lie down. I want to be rested when Khalid’s family come visiting in the afternoon.”
We would have gone over our schedule:
Today: A condolence call at my cousin’s. My maternal aunt had passed away over New Year’s. We would have talked about auntie, I would have pulled up a photo of her in her youth, and told the story of her coming to America to help me when I was expecting a baby. We would have hugged and cried.
Tomorrow: A condolence call to my other cousin. My paternal aunt passed away two years ago. Later, another condolence call to yet another cousin.
Day 3. Spend the day with Khalid’s brother. They all live in one house: he and his wife, three sons, their wives, the grandchildren, all 13 of them. The talk would have turned to politics, me asking ‘So is Imran Khan living up to his promise?’; them asking, “Who do you think is going to win the Democratic nomination?…Bernie Sanders can’t defeat Trump!” One of them would have said that with complete authority. I just know.
Next day: Lunch with my CB College friends. I can picture telling them: “Remember our teacher Mrs Ahmed? Guess what! I ran into her in the Ladies Room at Asia Society. Can you believe she recognized me! Let me show you her photo. See, she has aged but has the same ‘hint of mischief’ look.”
. . . a visit to welcome the newlyweds and new babies, a trip to Lahore—a 5 hour bus ride to see my only remaining uncle (my best friend) . . . more family, more college friends . . . and fly home.
But it didn’t happen.
What happened?
Corona virus happened.
We had booked our flight in August 2019. I would be going to Pakistan after three years, Khalid after four. The day after Christmas, I rushed to Macy’s and bought gifts: sweaters for my sister at great post-holiday prices. A stop at Costco for shampoo and soaps; hand lotions from Bath and Body Works . . . . On-line ordering of more gifts. Family in Pakistan had stuff from Amazon shipped to me: can you bring these with you? Sure.
“Send me your measurements; I am having clothes stitched for you, the latest style.” Neena texted. A week later she WhatsApped me photos of my new wardrobe. I WhatsApped my Homec college friends in two cities: “I am coming. Organize a gathering.” Parties were arranged; dates started populating my calendar. The count-down began.
That was January.
What virus??? China again!
OMG! Pakistan is loaded with traffic from China. What if?
What if?
We called our family.
“Oh don’t worry. There are no cases here.”
We called the airline. Huge cancellation fee. As in HUGE.
We called our travel insurance. “Epidemics are not covered.”
Now what!
Lets wait and see. We can cancel up to 24 hours of departure.
This was first week of February. We started tracking the virus reports—daily. Twice a day: No cases in Pakistan.
Second week of February: No cases in Pakistan. We called our family and told them that the trip was on. Yoo-hoo.
Third week: No cases in Pakistan. One more week to go. I started getting excited. I went through my e-files, saving much needed files on my flash drive. I was going to pack on the weekend.
Fourth week: I had just woken up from a nap, when Khalid said, “2 cases in Pakistan. We should cancel.”
“We should.”
Calling my siblings and uncle was the hardest part. I felt so sad listening to their voices drop to a barely audible whisper. “We were all waiting for you . . . we understand . . . when do you think you can come?...” I nearly cried.
The next day I went to Macy’s and returned all the children’s clothes. The rest, I packed into a carton and stored away for whenever. We took stock, stocked up on non-perishables, and geared up on taking universal precautions. I realize now how hard it is to break the habit of touching one’s face.
Meanwhile, there have been more cases in the U.S. than in Pakistan, more cases in New York than in Pakistan, one in our hometown of Manhattan. An 12 oz two-pack hand sanitizer is selling for $100.
When are we going to go to Pakistan? I am not making any long-term plans. I have learned my lesson. My apologies Thomas Kempis: Woman proposes, God disposes.
My family and friends in Pakistan, here and everywhere, all of you: Stay Well.
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