In 1972 when the Nationalization of Pakistan hit my father’s small business, clearing and forwarding of shipments, overnight he lost his largest client. We went from living comfortably in abundance to not having much at all. To me as a seven year old that meant that on my birthday that year and many years to follow instead of getting a new dress, new shoes, new hair ribbons (you get the picture) I got what I needed and some years that meant getting a new school uniform.
But no matter how tight things were there was always room for guests at our dining table. While my parents were always generous and gracious hosts my childish heart was resentful and fearful of there not being enough.
My dad’s eldest brother lived in the lower portion of the house and once he retired from his bank job he would join us for dinner every night. He had a great penchant for betting on horse races and the race course being across the street from our house didn’t help. You could tell if he had won or lost at the races. If he had won he would share some of his winnings with my sister and me telling us to buy something nice for ourselves One time I bought a pair of pumps for myself from a very fancy shoe store which I could not have imagined going to otherwise. If he had lost he would come quietly and leave quietly after dinner.
Every Sunday morning the doorbell would ring at 9:00 am and my dad’s cousin would join us for breakfast. She was the eldest of six siblings and had never married, She had spent her life first taking care of her siblings and then her ailing mother. While she lived by herself she would come to spend the weekend with her brother and his family who lived in the house next to ours. But Sunday morning she would be at our table. I don’t remember much of what was said and discussed during those mornings but I do remember that she did most of the talking.
Every so often my grandmother’s friend would come to visit my mom in the evening. She would stay until dinner time and when my mother would invite her to stay for dinner she would object saying she could not impose, my mother would insist, she would hesitantly agree and then from her bag she would take out one naan. This dance happened every time she came and my sister and I would wait for her to take out the “one” naan and then giggle. My sister and I called her “naan-walli” aunty (aunty with the naan). We couldn’t understand why she would bring only one naan. One day after she left, with resentment I asked why couldn’t she bring naan for all of us and my mom explained that she was poor and didn’t want to impose on us. We could add water to the curry or lentils to make it go further but there was only that much bread or roti to go around.
It’s been a long time since I have thought of these assorted people who blessed our table and at this time of scarcity and fear they have constantly been in my mind. My childhood resentment towards them has turned to gratitude for giving me the opportunity to witness the act of generosity and hospitality.
(The photo at the top is of Diana and her sister with their uncle.)
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