Leaving Lahore was one of the hardest things I've had to do. In many, many ways I was ready to go. But still, I did not want to leave things incomplete or loose ends untied; especially when people were relying on me not to. The trouble is that you could live for decades in Lahore and not feel satisfied that you have done all you could do.
Now that I'm leaving, I realise with some sadness that I have not made many friends among those with whom friendship was expected. With many, the difference in our views and perceptions of our surroundings was too difficult to overcome. I may have caused offence with what I said, but mainly, I think, problems lay with what I did. Paying my servants too much, offering to teach English to the servants of others, eating with them, smoking with them and, most unthinkably of all, making friends with them. And in this way, I accidentally isolated myself somewhat, but also got to see another world of juxtaposed lives, that otherwise I would have never known.
Friendship, I find, tends to be cemented when one or both parties need the other. I felt tremendously let down when colleagues in the 'upper classes' did not support me, or even try to or realise that they should, when I needed help. In the end, it was my 'lower class' friends who looked after me when I was ill, supported me when Pakistan felt too much and threw me a leaving party when I left.
To begin with, I felt very aggrieved by the lack of help offered by the people who could well afford to be supportive. But as I witnessed similar things again and again, I started to see it differently: the rich as victims of servant culture, just like the poor (admittedly on a lesser scale). The whole reciprocal cycle of giving to other people when they need something and receiving when you need something different, seems to be removed from this section of society. When you always pay for someone to cook for you, buy medicine and care for you when you are ill, you can't ever experience how wonderful it feels for someone to do those things just because they want to. And, furthermore, if you have never received such non-monetarily aided care, it is very difficult for you to realise when someone else (a visitor with no family there) needs it.
Sadly though, as wonderful as they were, I could also never completely fit in with the 'lower-class' friends and colleagues (who are inevitably more conservative), with whom I found myself much of the time. Although I leave with a great affection for them all, there is a gulf - gulf of different cultures and lives, which means I cannot be completely myself. I encountered enormous tolerance on the whole, but there have been moments which forced me to remember where I was.
During my leaving party, I was sitting with two children on my lap, laughing with them, and with my shalwar kameez all askew. The 18-year-old daughter of a colleague leaned across to me and said quietly: "Here, there is a proper way that ladies wear their shalwar kameez and a proper way for ladies to act when they are in public." I was taken aback, and suddenly very self-conscious of my behaviour, when only a moment ago I had been feeling so comfortable. I retorted, more sharply than I intended: "Well you must forgive me, as I am not from here. Where I am from, it is polite for a lady not to comment on other people's mistakes." The girl, I realised afterwards, thought that she was being helpful, and was upset by my response. Rather than being cruel, I think she felt it was her duty to let me know where I was going wrong, so that I could correct my errant behaviour.
Despite some moments like this one, I am very grateful for the care people took of me, people who didn't need to and often couldn't really afford to. I have tried to make this blog about people, so I can think of no better way to end than with a little about just some of them.
I shall start with my boss. I have been both astounded and impressed by her endless tenacity. She walks into a room and makes herself instantly known. She will not stand in a queue for anything. She will persuade, cajole, argue and tease her way to the front. Her enthusiasm and capacity to be endlessly positive even after we have lost one hearing after another, carried me through to continue working at the end of a week of 16-hour days. Working as a criminal defence lawyer, especially for clients facing the death penalty, and especially as a woman, you have to be as assertive as she is. Politeness will not do. I have never seen anyone manage to persuade a room full of hostile people - judges or prison supervisors - as successfully as she managed to. And for this reason, I admire her as a litigator both inside and outside the court room.
Salman. My friend and colleague who lost his wife and newborn child a month or so ago. I remember thinking at the time that his life would fall apart; after all, how could it go on? However, after one week off work (during which he still came to the office as he could not bear to be at their home), he returned to normal, or something that looked like it. Nothing more was said, the episode was over, she was dead. I almost wanted it to continue, for her life to be cried over for longer. But it wasn't people's cruelty or lack of caring, it's just that death here hangs with a heavy omnipresence. Salman has talked to me often about his wife, Shazia. About how she was a brilliant cook and liked rice, spices and watermelons but hated mangoes. And about the many plans she had made for their child, even years before that child was conceived. She had written out long calculations of how much money they would need to send him/her to a particular school and how they could find money for university fees. Salman carries her calculations around in his pocket still.
Salman's aim now is to clear his name. He is on bail, awaiting the appeal against his murder conviction; he has already served over a decade in prison. I've seen his court papers and the farce of his original trial takes some believing. It would be a travesty of justice if he doesn't win his appeal. But, then, it's Pakistan, so you never know what might happen.
Haroon Sahib. An expert in conciliation, he spends his days in meetings with feuding families or with the victims' families attempting to persuade them to forgive and/or reconcile. A slow and gentle middle-aged man, Haroon is not glamorous or immediately impressive. As someone from a lower class, his English is not very good and, so for me it was very easy to mistake his slow and considered conversation with slow-wittedness. In time, however, he became the person I relied on for advice, which was unfailingly sound, in a world of terrible advice. What has impressed me most about him was that he talks to everyone respectfully, not changing his tone for a millionaire or a murderer. In Pakistan, where you are meant to be humble in conversation with someone more powerful and authoritative when talking to someone weak, this quality cannot be underestimated. Inspired by religious teachings, Haroon Sahib is also an ambassador for religion in a country in which they can be hard to find.
My Pakistani family, last, but certainly not least. Sameena is clever, wily and manipulative. I love her spirit. She is the one servant I've met in Pakistan whose spirit has not been broken. She stands up tall, knowing she is more beautiful than any other woman in the room. She slams doors when she's angry, requests chocolate when no-one else is around and stares defiantly even when she is being reprimanded by someone in the office. I hope that her spirit is not broken, but I know, like her husband, how dangerous that spirit could be. And Zaid, her husband, less intelligent maybe but also faithful and loyal. I still don't know what language he uses to speak to me, as I rarely understand a word and have to look despairingly to Sameena for help. But he has always tried to make me more comfortable and is so grateful for everything and anything to help his family.
Rubab, the eldest child at 7, is already being trained to be a man. He puts fresh flowers on my desk every morning and his English is really starting to improve. Amon, the eldest girl, is quietly savvy and leads her two younger sisters around, making them eat leaves and climb trees, and picking them up when they fall. Saman, the shy one, is often overlooked. She doesn't ask for anything and hardly ever cries. But when you pick her up and put her on your knee, she looks like the happiest child in the world. At only 5, she has been recognised as being exceptionally bright and put forward by the school for a government scheme to have her schooling paid for. And then there's Annam, the monster. The baby at 2, she rules her family. Mischievous, cunning and gorgeous; I sense that she may well have that spirit of her mother's.
After my colleague, who I'd been living with at the office, left, my life at the office fell in to mild chaos. We all ate together, I bought huge, sweet mangoes for everyone each day, the children played in the office, I turned one office room into a classroom and raided the office stationery cupboard for classroom equipment. It was a good kind of chaos.
On the day I left I gave each of the children a wrapped present. They looked at the shiny wrapping paper in awe. They shook their heads when I told them to unwrap the boxes. They carried them off and put them first in their home, then in the garden, and finally back in the office. They organised the gifts into piles, swapped them and then just sat and looked at them. It took almost a day for that wrapping paper to finally come off.
Thanks to the generosity of some of my family and friends, the family will soon own a rickshaw, which I hope will give them some security and the means to make a living. And, I must remember that, just like all the others, they will probably survive, in one way or another, long after I've gone.
So, as I feel let down by some people there, I feel buoyed up by the enormity of the care and love I received from others. I feel relieved to be removed from the pollution, heat and lawlessness of the city as much as I miss its vibrancy and its indefinable charm. Pakistan defies conclusions, as much as it defies almost everything else.
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