The culture of hospitality. It has survived the onslaught of terrorist attacks, robberies, pandemics and every fear that threatens to chip away at trust and an open-arms attitude.
Let me share a story.
Last month we were visiting Lahore. We decided to pay a visit to my uncle and aunt. We were staying with my uncle Jedi Mamoon, whose driver took us there. Before we left, Jedi Mamoon gave the driver directions: Go through Qaddafi Stadium, then through the circle, and make an immediate left. It’s the first house on the left.
Since I am a Google Map person, and since there were protests taking place in Lahore—called by Imran Khan—I decided not to take a chance and asked my cousin, who lives at the same location as my uncle, for the home address. He sent me the address but also sent me the Pin Location. I had never used Pin Location so I put the address in Google Maps. There it was: the road through Qaddafi Stadium was closed, in anticipation of the protests. Glad I checked. I then let Google lead us to the house, giving verbal directions to the driver. “You have arrived at your destination” Google announced, but I didn’t see the house # outside. The driver got out and rang the doorbell by the gate. A guard came up from inside and said, “Come from the other gate.” The driver reversed the car and took it to the other gate. The guard opened the gate, the driver pulled the car into the driveway, and we got out. It was my husband Khalid, our granddaughter Laila, and me. The guard pointed us to the entrance door.
The three of us walked up and I rang the doorbell. A moment later a woman opened the door.
“Salaam Alaikum,” she said to us with a smile.
“Wa Alaikum Assalam,” we responded.
I did not recognize the woman and wondered if my aunt had aged since I last met her, which was seven years ago.
She opened the door wide and asked us to come in.
We walked in.
She led us into the living room. As we stood there, she gave me an inquiring look and made a polite hand gesture suggesting, ‘remind me, how do I know you?’
“We are here to see Rukhsi,” I said, referring to my aunt.
“Oh Rukhsi! She lives in the house next door. I will take you.”
Wow! We had walked into the wrong house. No wonder she didn’t look familiar. No wonder the living room didn’t look the same.
“Rukshi is my sister-in-law,” she said as we walked out.
She walked us out of her house and to the gate of the next house. We beckoned our driver to follow us, and said our apologies, our thanks and our goodbyes to the good lady.
This house had the house #, the gate looked familiar, and as soon as we rang the bell, a familiar face emerged. “We just barged into your sister-in-law’s house.” Chuckles.
But think of it: The guard of the wrong house, who is supposed to guard the house against robbers, let us in. I guess we didn’t look like bandits. The lady of the house didn’t say, “Who is it?” before opening the door. She didn’t recognize us, but hospitality and social graces required that she welcome us in, take us into her living room, and then and only then, make a polite inquiry as to who we were.
That is the Pakistani spirit of hospitality. You are always welcome. Anytime, anywhere. Always.
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