The sun slowly climbs above the abyss of Himalayas. Its light begins to wake the vibrant city of Lahore. It spreads through every street, winding its way down alleys, through local bazaars, atop countless mosques. It twists and turns till it reaches the windowsill of a house just a few minutes away from the busy marketplace. The warm rays fall across the face of a young girl; her hair is a frizzy mess from the humidity and her face a deep bronze from her constant sun exposure. Her eyes flutter awake just as the daily azan begins for the first prayer, Fajr. Quickly she tiptoes from her bed to her suitcase, trying to not disturb her four cousins and sister who share the bedroom with her because it offers the only air conditioning in the house. Her mother and aunt are already dressed and chatting in the kitchen, her aunt more likely than not arguing with her cook over the lack of spice in her sallan. She walks across the wood floors until she arrives at the bathroom. She enters it only to find it is occupied by one of the house servants dusting the floors. The girl looks to be several years younger than her and wears a light blue salwar kameez. Apologetically, she gathers her things and leaves the room. The young girl stares at her retreating figure, surprise clearly upon her face. She has not yet grown accustomed to the servants who tread softly about the house, doing laundry and making beds. It always leaves a feeling of guilt and remorse in the pits of her stomach. She shuts the door and goes to the protruding faucet next to which is a large container which she fills with water. There is only one temperature; cold. The cold water is comforting in the blistering heat that is beginning to set in already. After her shower, she dresses in her favorite set of salwar kameez; a light pink with embroidered flowers, and makes her way to the kitchen. The smell of Puri wavers to her nostrils even before she enters the kitchen, making her mouth water. Puri is a favorite breakfast for all in Pakistan; composed of unleavened bread deep fried in vegetable oil and eaten with halwa. As she eats she listens as her mother and aunt talk of the troubles of Pakistan.
At first glance the country of Pakistan appears insignificant, a nation stunned into a long and painful silence after one of the world’s most traumatizing earthquakes. One would think that from this crumbling place could come nothing but sadness and despair. However, at a second glance the eyes begin to make out life behind the wreckage. Slowly the merchants clear the dust from their doors and open up once again to catch passerby’s eyes with the smell of their ripe fruit or the shine of their gleaming trinkets; children once more immerge from their homes with their father’s cricket bats in hand to play the most popular Pakistani pastime, and every morning each man and women wake and face toward one historical building, Mecca, and bow their heads in prayer. As she sits, munching on her breakfast the youthful girl thinks not of the pairs of exquisite sandals she has purchased for fewer rupees then she has ever thought possible nor does her mind wander to the number of delicious kabobs she has feasted on during her stay. Instead she discovers that real beauty of this country comes from the hopeful people who know not of a luxurious life, but are content with what they have, who have faith even through the worst of times, and this, she sat thinking, was more rewarding than all the flip-flops and kabobs anyone could offer her.