Pulao Khain Ge Ahbab, Fateha Hogi

Friends, I had been wondering for a long time: what would happen after my death? What would happen after I was gone? My naive heart had many desires, among which *pulao* and *zarda* were at the top of the list, as I am quite fond of both. There’s an added thrill when I mix them with *qorma* (using a spoon). Many people’s eyes pop out at this, and I often hear the word “villager” muttered under their breath, but it doesn’t bother me in the least. Gone are the days when lice would make their home in our hair.

Anyway, I was talking about existence and non-existence. There was a bit of overconfidence or perhaps a delusion that, since I’ve been so invested in teaching or imparting knowledge day and night, there are countless admirers as well as countless critics. Surely, they’d be startled to think: where did she disappear to? But nothing happened, at least not until I returned and made an appearance myself after an eight-day hiatus.

But what had actually happened? Was it a grudge against social media or a desire for rest? Those who know me are aware that I don’t hold grudges; I’m one to express my grievances openly and then move on. And rest? My bones don’t ache as much from work as they do from inactivity, which makes them creak, and they implore me to get up, go somewhere, do something… As Zakuuta Jin says, *What should I do? Whom should I eat?*

Alright, let’s not test your patience any further with these ramblings.

It so happened that my foolish heart decided to go out. I wanted to travel light, so I left behind the laptop and iPad, taking only my phone, and set off.

Where? Wherever the wheels would take me.

And as soon as I arrived, my connection to the world was severed because someone snatched away the very thing that kept me linked to it.

The questions began: “Do you know your email password?”

No.

“WhatsApp password?”

Don’t know.

“Facebook password?”

No idea.

“iCloud password?”

Not a clue.

“Anyone’s phone number?”

Who remembers phone numbers these days?

The questioners were dumbfounded. This woman was utterly disconnected from the world; who knows if she even knows herself anymore?

Seeing the worried faces, I decided to jog my memory, and then I remembered my daughter’s email. I told her, “Dear daughter, your mother is lost abroad. What to do?”

“I know, Mom,” she said, “whenever you go out, you look neither to the left nor the right.”

“Oh, my dear child, I don’t look up or down either,” I replied.

“So, this was bound to happen,” she continued, “you probably left your phone somewhere while sipping coffee and then wandered off in your own carefree way.”

Hmm, yes, that’s pretty much what happened. I had run into an old friend from my youth, and we laughed so much together that passersby started asking each other, “Who are these crazy women?”

Then we chased after trains, crossed bridges, pushed open doors, jumped onto platforms, and laughed heartily. We reached our destination, but that unfaithful phone slipped out of my pocket, or someone made off with it. “Now what should I do?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, Mother, you forgot that you’re no longer eighteen.”

To be honest, I still am eighteen, it’s just that this chronic cold has turned my hair white, I said, laughing.

“And where do I come in?” my daughter said, gritting her teeth.

“Well, you see, we grew up together,” I said, still laughing.

“You’re not going to explain directly, are you? So, I’ll do it. Even if you buy a new phone right now, you don’t have the iCloud password, nor do you have the SIM card to get your number back…”

“So, wait until you return home, where you’ll find the laptop, the SIM card, and the password diary that I’ve made for you many times, reminding you to keep it with you.”

“And what if I never get the data back? You know, everything I’ve written so far is on that phone’s Notes app, whether while traveling, sitting idle, in the operating theater, on a train journey, or sipping tea in the hospital.”

“Yes, I know. Your phone wasn’t just a phone; it was your diary, alarm clock, calendar, writings, photos, dates—an entire world inside it.”

“Do you realize, if I couldn’t type in Urdu on the phone, I might never have started writing at all? I don’t know how to use pen and paper, and apart from one exam paper in FSC back in 1983, I had never written in Urdu.” I said with a helpless expression.

“Yes, we know all about it. You never did your school homework because you didn’t like filling pages.”

“So, imagine, how would I write if I couldn’t type on the phone? Oh, my beloved phone!”

“Alright, what’s done is done. Just be patient for a week.”

“A week? That’s seven days… I shouldn’t post on Facebook for seven days?” I asked in a panicked voice.

“No, just rest,” came the calm reply.

“And what about the friends on WhatsApp?”

“Let them rest, too.”

“Oh dear, what about the people I write to regularly on *Hum Sub*?”

“Let it be irregular for once,” came the nonchalant response.

“Everyone on Facebook will be waiting for me. They’re used to seeing my posts,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Give them a break,” came the commanding voice from the other side.

“And my followers? My readers? What will they do?”

“They’ll manage just fine without you, Mom. Life will go on perfectly well,” came the exasperated reply.

There was nothing left to say after that.

What happened afterward? Don’t even ask. It felt like the days were desolate and the nights dull… What should I do? In Pakistan, the *Khil Naiki* festival was held, and my name wasn’t even mentioned.

Two or three days later, I started to wonder if people might start asking about me or post status updates on Facebook, asking where the women’s rights advocate had gone. I borrowed people’s phones, peeking at Facebook to see if anyone had mentioned me.

Nope, nothing anywhere.

A few days later, a message from a young girl named Fatima Shah appeared under one of my old posts: “Dr. Tahira, are you alright? Where are you?”

Such affection I felt for Fatima Shah… Dear girl, you’ve saved my honor.

I must not fail to mention those who reached out to my relatives in search of me. Twin *Huma Kokab Bukhari* contacted my children, and dear friend Dr. Farah dialed my husband’s number in Pakistan to ask, “Where is my friend?” Our cousin Safdar Bhai was also part of this list.

To cut a long story short, this fool finally returned home. I bought a phone, pleaded with iCloud, and reconnected with the world I had been estranged from for seven days. We met, you and I, shared words of affection, and you told me that you had indeed missed me, even if just for a moment. That was enough for me. I was back among those for whom every word of mine mattered, and for whom this bond was even more important.

As for eating *pulao* and offering prayers for the deceased, we’ve postponed that for another time.