When I first moved to Islamabad a month ago, I was in a bad, bad mood.

The rooms were too small. The weather was weird; my towels would always be a little bit wet. Where the heck was I to find a clothes stand? I had no desire to hang my washing out in the balcony for the world to see, then scramble to remove it when it started pouring without warning, which it did approximately every 2 days.

I didn’t have any friends. I had to leave behind the entire squad of two friends I had made after four years. I didn’t have any of my things: the clothes you can carry in a 20 kg luggage allowance is – spoiler alert – nothing. I didn’t like the clothes here. Why did every kurti have so many colors? Why did no one like stripes and solid colors and dress shirts? I missed my carefully curated household items and my airfryer and my paint brushes. I missed my professional standardized pool and my basketball team. I hated everything. I wanted to go home, only this was supposed to be home now, and there was no other home.

Every time I needed something: a coat, dumbbells or clothes hangers: I was reminded of how I had a better version of it in boxes I hadn’t managed to ship and would now be able to get at God-knows-when.

I blamed my age. I turn 29 soon, and I told myself that the country-hopping and digital-nomading had run its course. I wanted to settle, dammit, a word I had scorned all my life. And I wanted it now, with my airfryer, and I wanted no arguments. Because I said so. I don’t have children, but I had turned into an Amma.

And then I met some people. I discovered a nice park. A host of purple-flowered trees surprised me beside the road to the swimming pool I’d just found. Other things I found: you’re supposed to put your towels out in the balcony to dry, random lightning is normal, most roads have no lanes – or streetlights – and honking is part of life.

I ordered a sofa bed. I met some more people, some of whom I didn’t like, some who were funny. I put up a whiteboard. I bought a sketchbook and some charcoal pencils and discovered that the balcony was a pretty cool place to get some alone time . I found bookstores (bought books even though I have fifteen boxes of books in three different countries already. I’m only human). I stumbled on a basketball court in a park, which came with an 11 year old who shows up alone every day at 6, plays HORSE with me while my herniated disc recovers enough to have a one-on-one match with her, doesn’t have a phone but has Instagram and memorized my handle after I spelled it out for her on the court.

I was and am still foreign here. But that doesn’t mean, I am coming to realize, that I can’t make this place home like I did so many places before.

Written by : raaziasajid

raazia is looking for beta readers

are you interested in reading advance copies of raazia’s work and giving feedback? let her know!

Leave A Comment