In the heart of Lahore, where the air hummed with the scent of jasmine and the distant call of the azan blended with the chatter of bustling streets, my story began. It all started when my dad met my mom, and they had me—a fine wheat-brown beauty, as my father would proudly declare, his eyes twinkling like stars over the Punjab plains. I was born into a world where love wasn't just a word whispered in secret; it was a living, breathing entity that danced through our modest home like sunlight filtering through chinar leaves.
My parents, Ahmed and Fatima, were the epitome of what I imagined true love to be. In our Pakistani household, romance wasn't confined to grand gestures or Bollywood serenades under the rain. It was woven into the everyday fabric of life, subtle yet profound, like the intricate patterns on a Kashmiri shawl. Dad would tease Mom relentlessly, calling her "my little chili pepper" because of her fiery temper that could ignite over the smallest things, like when he'd "accidentally" add extra spice to her chai. She'd retaliate by hiding his favorite kurta just before guests arrived, forcing him to scramble in a mismatched salwar kameez, all while suppressing giggles behind her dupatta.
Their hugs were spontaneous eruptions of affection—Dad wrapping his strong arms around Mom from behind as she kneaded dough for parathas, whispering something that made her swat at him playfully with flour-dusted hands. "Ahmed, the children!" she'd protest, but her eyes betrayed the joy. And the tricks? Oh, they were legendary. Once, Dad convinced Mom that a stray cat in the courtyard was a jinn in disguise, leading to a hilarious chase with brooms and recited ayats until he confessed, pulling her into a laughing embrace. I watched them from a young age, hidden behind doorframes or peeking from under the charpoy, mesmerized by this magical dance. For me, it was the love of my dreams, a fairy tale unfolding in the mundane rhythm of our lives.
Growing up in a joint family, where uncles, aunts, and cousins shared the same sprawling haveli, their love stood out like a blooming rose in a field of thorns. Pakistani parents, especially in conservative circles, often hid their affections behind closed doors, but not mine. They'd hold hands during evening walks in the neighborhood park, ignoring the occasional judgmental glances from elders. Mom would pack Dad's lunch with hidden notes—poetic lines from Faiz Ahmed Faiz scribbled on scraps of paper, reminding him of their shared youth. In return, he'd bring home fresh guavas from the market, carving them into heart shapes with his pocket knife, a silent ode to their enduring bond.
But it wasn't always easy. Our society, with its rigid norms and expectations, viewed overt romance as a Western import, something to be whispered about in women's gatherings or mocked in men's tea sessions. Yet, my parents defied it all with quiet rebellion. Dad, a schoolteacher with a passion for Urdu literature, would read ghazals to Mom under the neem tree in our courtyard, his voice low and melodic, evoking the romance of bygone eras. Mom, a homemaker with a sharp wit honed from years of navigating family politics, would respond with her own verses, often improvised, turning ordinary moments into poetry.
I was their only child for the longest time, a miracle after years of prayers. My birth brought even more light into their world. They'd tell me stories of how Dad carried me on his shoulders through crowded bazaars, bargaining for toys while Mom selected fabrics for my tiny frocks. Their love extended to me like a protective canopy, shielding me from the harsh winds of the world outside. But it was their origin story—the tale of how they met—that truly enchanted me, making me delusional in the best way possible. It painted love as an adventure, a battle won against odds, and I clung to it like a talisman.
As a little girl of around ten to six, I was already a dreamer, lost in books borrowed from Dad's collection. Our home was filled with the aroma of Mom's biryani on Fridays and the sound of Dad's laughter echoing through the rooms. It was during one such ordinary evening that the story unfolded, etching itself into my soul. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across our simple living room. Dad, as was his habit in the sweltering Punjab heat, roamed shirtless, his broad back glistening under the ceiling fan's lazy whirl. I perched on the edge of the bed, my small hands pressing into his shoulders in what I called a massage but was really just playful tickles.
My eyes always wandered to those marks—faint scars crisscrossing his skin like faded battle lines. They intrigued me, these silent witnesses to some untold epic. Gathering courage, I finally asked, "Abbu, how did you get these scars on your back?" He paused, a gentle, proud smile spreading across his face. He glanced at Mom, who was folding clothes on the other side of the room, her movements precise and rhythmic. "Those," he said with a dramatic flair, "are from when I went to rescue the most beautiful princess. The evil king stabbed me in the back."
Mom overheard, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as she shot him a knowing look. "Ahmed, don't fill her head with nonsense," she chided, but there was no real reprimand in her voice—only fondness. Dad chuckled and began the tale, pulling me into a world of young love and daring exploits. He was twenty-two, a young man fresh out of university, wandering the vibrant streets of Punjab during spring. The air was alive with the festival of Basant, kites soaring like colorful birds against the azure sky.
The festival was a spectacle in Punjab's spring, when the mustard fields bloomed in golden waves, and the air carried the sweet fragrance of blooming mango orchards. Villages and cities alike erupted in celebration—rooftops crowded with families flying kites, the strings coated in glass powder for fierce battles in the sky. Street vendors hawked spicy chaat and sweet jalebis, their calls mingling with the rhythmic beats of dhol drums. Women in vibrant salwar kameezes adorned with gota work fluttered like butterflies, while men in crisp kurtas shouted "Wo Kata!" as kites were cut loose.
It was amid this chaos that Dad first saw Mom. She was at the mela, her long braid swaying like a pendulum as she laughed with her friends. The sun caught her dupatta, making it shimmer like silk woven from sunlight. In one sight, he fell in love—his heart skipping like a kite caught in a sudden gust. The atmosphere was electric: children chasing lost kites, elders sharing hookah under shamianas, and young lovers stealing glances amidst the crowd. The scent of fresh rain on earth mixed with frying pakoras, and folk songs filled the air, tales of Heer and Ranjha echoing his budding romance.
He followed her through the throng, his eyes never leaving her form. The festival's energy pulsed around them—fireworks cracking overhead, lanterns glowing as dusk fell. He tried to approach, but she was surrounded by admirers, her beauty drawing them like moths to a flame. Ignored that night, he didn't despair. Instead, he sought her out, discovering her college in the city. Day after day, he'd sit outside the gates on a rickety bench, hoping for a glance, his heart a drumbeat of anticipation.
One fateful day, her bus departed early, leaving her stranded as twilight deepened. Fear crept in as shadows lengthened, and soon, a group of hooligans encircled her—their leader a spurned suitor nursing wounded pride. She ran toward the nearby mosque, seeking sanctuary, but they were faster. Pushed to the ground, her knees scraped and bleeding, she despaired. Then, a hand extended—Dad, her unlikely hero.
"Yes, you ABBU!" I exclaimed, interrupting in excitement. He nodded proudly, but Mom interjected, "Tell her the truth now." With a sheepish grin, he admitted: there were six of them, and it was no cinematic fight. They beat him soundly while Mom escaped. Bruised and limping, he returned the next day to his vigil outside her college. "That," he said, "was when your mother fell in love with me."