There is a bridge in Karachi that my grandfather built 50 years ago. I've been driving over it for the last seven and it's only recently that I found out. He never mentioned it and I never bothered to ask. But whenever I drive over it now, I feel a sense of possession, as if it's my bridge. Something that links me to him. Is that where the roots of patriotism lie? An attempt to preserve the memories of the people we love?
I remember reading somewhere that if you don't like someone, the way they hold a spoon will infuriate you. And if you happen to care for them, well then they can tip over a bowl of hot soup in your lap and you'll gladly laugh it off.
You want to talk but nothing comes out. Words move back and forth like so many mechanical pistons but where before there was laughter and love and a feeling of being alive, now a heavy silence ensues, a pressure bearing down on you. A sense of dissociation that isolates you from the flurry of healing well-meaning vistors prescribe amiably as they flutter in and out. You cannot locate yourself except in odd moments, brushing your teeth or walking through rain. People at the supermarket startle you as they bend over fruit bins, interrogating the produce. Does it really matter, finding an apple that isn't bruised?
Just wanted to take some time out to thank all of those people who wrote (or called or visited) to offer their condolences. Your kindness and your support have been overwhelming and we are truly grateful. May God bless you all.
