Longing For Belonging Again

I never truly appreciated my roots until I was uprooted

(All the images used are owned by the author)

Living in Lahore I realized the worth of my slow bucolic life. I missed waking up to the sound of chirping birds and not to the blaring alarm clock that filled me with the dread of already being late.

While I was living in my village (I am ashamed to admit ) I looked down on those who grew vegetables and milked their goat ( a learned prejudice; they are known as Maliyar in my locality ) but at 32 I want to be a Maliyar. I also want to be a moochi (A local slang for shoe-makers) and I want to be a darzi (slang term for tailors) too. I want to grow my own vegetables stitch my own clothes and if not make, at least mend my own shoes.

One of the worst fears I felt in the city was that I would be lying dead on the street and people would pass by without looking. I wished to feel the sense of belonging I felt in my village. The usual greeting of my fellow villagers “kuthay jully ho jee?” (Where are you going) which irritated me so much back then, became a longing.

Now again stuck in another city after getting married I long for a village life. All I dream of is settling into my husband’s village, having my little garden, and raising my children there.

It was built in parts. The oldest part was built in the 1950s. Its exterior shows Mughlan romanticism with its huge pillars and scalloped arches.

The tile work, huge corridors, and work works are a coalescence of Persian and Indigenous architecture

My love for architecture aside, the peace and serenity here is unmatched. Just sitting in this vastness with no furniture closing in on you is refreshingly satisfying. This house and I are a love affair, it’s where I belong, and I will romanticize it as long as I live.