I miss Pakistan. I miss the old, crowded, dusty bazaar streets. The sound of the wild roaring generator. The smell of gas, metal, fire, dust, chaat, mud, rain combine together and create this wonderful spicy aroma. It's something like, cinnamon, with a bit of a floral scent. Yes, there are the sewers too, but Karachi has improved a lot, thanks to Mustafa Kamal. I miss the sound of the rickshaws, the cool summer wind rushing through my hair from the rolled down windows of an old car, pulling the hair away and exposing my face, sliding off my dupatta from the hair. I miss the bright summer days, the hilarious wait for the electricity to light up the house again, cursing the KESC, the beating of the dholki to while away time. I miss the lawn dupatta fanning my face on a hot day when there's no electricity, I miss reading Twilight with the light of my cellphone at night to avoid waking my aunt up. I miss the sarcasm of the people, the loud, boisterous laughs, the street vendors constantly interrupting your shopping by forcing you to buy towels, drawstrings, remote control covers and whatnot. I miss entering a chilled room or shop after enduring the hot heat outside. I miss watching my uncles play chess together, I miss watching my aunts cook in the kitchen, I miss the women bargaining in shops for clothes. I miss the pull and push of the females gathered outside jewellery shops, bargaining for bangles and demanding this colour, that colour, brandishing colour after colour of a cloth for perfect matching.
I miss the call of the Adhan with a Pakistani accent, and I miss the feeling of guilt and sadness combined with humility and compassion upon seeing armless beggars.
But most of all, I miss my home. I miss the very essence of Pakistan, the essence that I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I guess it's just the country, the love for my nation running through my veins.
If I could, I would live in Pakistan, maybe even in dire conditions.