I don’t understand why people are surprised when they learn that I am a fantasist. Let alone the general public, even aviation experts are momentarily taken aback when they see me in a pilot’s uniform. Even during the interview for the selection process, I was asked why, despite being a woman, I prefer this profession.
“Despite being a woman?” I could not help smiling, though I was somewhat nervous owing to the interview.
“Yes, yes, go on, tell us why you want to become a pilot.”
“Because it is the inherent nature of woman to incessantly fly in the air.”
The chair of the interview board burst out laughing.
Hearing his guffaw, other members of the board became extraordinarily serious, so serious that it aroused more laughter.
“You are right! We men, even while soaring through the sky, feel as if we are walking on the ground, but you women, even when you are standing near your kitchen counters, seem to be aboard a Boeing 707.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied inadvertently and became flustered at my response.
“Why did you not apply for the job of an air hostess?”
“I don’t like being the host or the guest!”
A flustered person, when riled further, ends up speaking their mind.
“Here is what I desire. I want to feel at home in whichever country I visit, like any person in that country.”
“Arrrr…” The chair of the interview panel burst out laughing again.
Anyway, I was selected and I have been flying in the sky regularly for many years. London, New York, Moscow, Rome, each destination is familiar to me like my own place. I find them as familiar as one can be with the strangeness of one’s in-law’s house.
I have a very special sweet friend at every location. So sweet that whenever I encounter him, I feel as if the earth is swirling around. Last week, as I was suffering from a bit of a cold, I could not reach London on my assigned day. But now, as I arrive here on my latest visit, Aftab is waiting patiently for me as usual.
“You have arrived! Come,” he says and we sip our morning tea together as always.
“You must have had your breakfast alone the last time I was expected?”
“No, you were here with me.”
I know that Aftab is not creating fiction about my presence: a young and healthy existence is not filled with the ugliness of cunning. A heart brimming with young blood keeps on beating without a thought; it does not reflect or think before every heartbeat.
Aftab is very naive and I constantly fear that the rather indifferent and fast-paced London will suddenly, unknowingly, crush my friend under its pressure one day, and no one will even know it has happened. Then, when I visit London on a scheduled trip, someone else will be occupying Aftab’s rented room.
The world is so crowded that if someone passes away, somebody else spontaneously occupies the place they have vacated. The universe never accepts a vacuum; it keeps changing.
“I am really sorry, Madam,” some strange old Englishman will look out from Aftab’s window and inform me, “Aftab Husain is not here.”
“Where is he? Has he returned to Pakistan?”
“No, he left for his heavenly abode. He met with an accident.”
Why did you come here from Pakistan, Aftab?
When we first met, he was drinking with the seriousness of an old man in the lounge of the Young Life Club, as if he was performing some important obligation with great thought and sincerity. Several couples were on the dance floor, shaking their legs to the loud and rapid beat of the orchestra. Aftab’s intoxicated eyes were riveted to their joyful, swaying bodies before him.
I came and sat near him, hoping that he would become comfortable with me within a couple of minutes, and then, in typical Eastern style, request me to dance with him. Then, soaked with all the familiarity of dancing together, we’d get exhausted and go to a restaurant for dinner as usual and after that he would say, “Come, let me take you to my place. Will you come?”
Instead, after becoming friendly with me, tears started flowing from his eyes and I panicked and started looking around. After a while, in a sad, drunken voice, he started talking about his old mother who lives alone in some village in Pakistan and to whom he sends ten pounds from his salary on the very first day of each month. Then, all of a sudden, he took my hand in his own and, swearing by his mother, confessed that he had really and truly fallen in love with me.
“Why did you come here from Pakistan?”
“Because I had to meet you. One has to reach Amritsar from Lahore via London.”
Aftab is Pakistani and I am an Indian, an Indian who, before the creation of Pakistan, was a native of that part of India which later became a part of Pakistan.
My first love affair was with a very naive boy. What a sweet, innocent, and childish romance it was, when the only wish from the beloved is that they reciprocate your love. Indeed, it is a great feeling. In India and Pakistan, many boys’ beloveds and many girls’ lovers have migrated across the borders of both countries. And since they are unaware of the route to London, they feel as if their beloved has left them for good – for their heavenly abode – and that they will never meet again.
Now, when one lover remembers the other, their mind echoes with the explosion of bombs. But here in London, my hand held by Aftab’s hand, I feel as if the old India-Pak subcontinent has drowned and an ocean has reclaimed its territories. All London’s ills have been washed away in the germ-purifying waters of this ocean and the subcontinent has blossomed in delight all over again. Aftab’s presence has never aroused any wicked thought in my mind. Whenever I see him, pure maternal feelings awaken in me and I feel my body burst into light. This is what saves Aftab’s boat from being wrecked on the rocks in turbulent waters.
Excerpted with permission from ‘Free Spirit’ translated from the Urdu by Haris Qadeer in Rivers of Thirst: Stories of Partitions, Borders and Exile, Joginder Paul, edited by Sukrita Paul Kumar and Rushaan Kumar, Speaking Tiger Books.
