My ancestors are originally from Dawudpur, a small village about 3 hour's drive from Lahore. The closest shehr is Jallalpur, a city famous for it's sweet jalebis and other delicacies. Although we have a house in Lahore, my family's land and main houses, or chabaras and haveli, are located in Dawudpur.
In itself, there isn't very much remarkable about this small village. Although basic amenities are available, and it has progressed remarkably in the past couple decades, it is still a poor, rural farm town a world apart from Lahore and other more developed municipalities. It has it's share of folklore and tales, some true and some colorful fabrications concocted from idle minds.
The few times I've been back to visit have always been in the summertime. I vividly recall the scorching sweltering heat. It was more bearable during our stay in Lahore since our cars, house, and people who's houses we visited generally were air conditioned, as were most public places. But in Dawudpur air conditioning was a luxury not many people could afford, nor were many establishments built to accommodate it. The heat was often insufferable. Nonetheless, I cherished the time spent in my grandfather's hometown. Numerous stories had been regaled to me, and the sights sounds and people were like a story coming to life. I absorbed everything around me like a sponge. But as curious as I was, the locals were more curious. We had similar skin tones, wore similar clothes and spoke a similar language but we were not the same; my family was American. My parents were very protective of my brothers and myself during our visits - especially of me, and with good reason.
I reminisce of often visiting our property bordering the outskirts of the village. Some memories are very vivid in my mind. One time, it had rained just before fajr time and the ground was muddy. The air was permeated by the thick smell of charred burning wood from the tandoorovens mixed with the cloying scent of a rooh afza bottle broken in the courtyard by the mausi'sson. Abbajan was calling for us to hurry, our driver had arrived since after fajr. My younger brother was fussing he wanted American milk; my older brothers had wasted water playing in the washroom, and mausi had had to fetch more so I could bathe and get ready. By the time we were all loaded into the van with the various paraphernalia necessary for a family of six plus three others to make a day trip to an area with limited resources, it was fast approaching noontime - the hottest part of the day.
On the ride to the fields, I found the tongas, or horse drawn buggys, a novelty, and would stare fascinated when the driver pulled up alongside - or almost crashed into - one. Traffic in much of Pakistan has no rhyme or reason; the roads are shared by anyone or thing headed anywhere, and everyone follows their own traffic rules. It's nothing short of a miracle when people arrive to their destination in tact and unharmed.
During these drives I always asked my parents a barrage of questions: Why is that man at our window asking for money? What is that black water along side the streets? Can we stop and watch the baba make jalebis? Why are the buses so decorated and colorful? How come there's necklaces with money hanging in that shop?
My dad, Allah bless him, is so patient with my questions; he always explained until I was satisfied. But Mama lost her patience quickly and would often admonish me fitay muh, hush! Not that her reprimands deterred me for long, of course; I take after my father, after all.
Anyway, during this one particular visit when our property came into view, Abbajan called to the back of the van to my brothers and myself. Looking out through the windows, we saw green fields stretching out as far as the eye could see, until they melded with the pale blue summer sky off in the horizon. To the side was an enormous old, dilapidated, uninhabited farmhouse that I came to know was my grandfather's childhood home.
Looking to my father, I will never forget the look on his face upon having returned home. There was a peculiar joy mixed with profound pride in his eyes as he took stock of our surroundings; my heart swelled with similar pride as I stood by his side. Gazing at the ground my grandfathers had toiled, I felt my existence intertwined with theirs as my mind recreated their joys heartache and struggles from the stories I'd been told.
The tayhkaydar who reports to my dad and uncles of the property's affairs met us with his two sons to show us around. It would have been impossible to tour the entire grounds in any single trip but I recall fields of golden wheat and stalks of corn and sugarcane; vines of succulent watermelons and various other crops grown in the rich fertile soil.
I remember closing my eyes and inhaling the essence of the centuries-old dirt; it's moist, earthy smell always lingered on my fingers long after the last speck had been brushed away, as if it yearned to be a part of me as much as I felt a part of it.
At times like tonight, nostalgia overwhelms me as I reflect.
There's been talk of dividing the land, selling off parts or all for profit. Practically speaking I can attempt to understand the reasoning. Most of my father's side of the family is settled here or abroad, and its unlikely that any will return to reside in Pakistan. In light of the current global economic crisis and turmoil in the region, the value of the land has depreciated, though a plot its size would still generate a respectable sum. And it is difficult to operationally manage from so far away.
But every fiber of my being protests auctioning off the land. Not for financial reasons; rather because it would be like auctioning off our heritage, the next generation's legacy, and part of my very identity. All of this far outweighs any monetary value; some things cannot be price-tagged. And visiting Pakistan would never be the same again. It would be like going on vacation and returning only to find your home had been sold while you were away.
Not to mention, my grandfather, Allah bless his soul, would turn in his grave.
While no conclusion has been reached yet regarding how or if the property will be divided and sold, I pray it doesn't come to that. Nonetheless, as I take a trip down memory lane tonight, I can't help feeling shortly that will be the only accessible path to my family's ancestral home.
