A plane fell from the sky in Pakistan, it’ll be a sad Eid. Two survivors, which feels miraculous: one who returned to consciousness and groped towards a light and leapt off the plane wing before the fires reached him, the other flung out, still strapped into his seat, to emerge only with a broken bone or so. Two of those who died were the parents-in-law of someone I know, and the parents of a person who was, in the heated 90s of upper class Lahore, was well known as one of the bright Aitchisonians. I remember their wedding vividly, as it was in the days that Benazir was killed, when the world felt very fragile indeed, and we all held our breaths, wondering what would happen. All celebrations were cancelled, partly because everyone was afraid of enraging PPP jiyalas, but also because no one really felt like celebrating. It was a disaster, an epic disaster. In Karachi, someone I know who owned a beauty parlour was forced, like all businesses, to close it down and people who had booked for bridals turned up in cars with darkened windows for modest make-up supervised by grim-faced women sent by the local PPP office to ensure that there was no air of celebration or make-up for frivolous reasons. That wedding went on, in a tent carefully shrouded so the lights would not show, the guests without jewellery, and the music turned low. The younger relatives of the couple kept wanting to turn up the music so they could dance, but it kept getting turned down again as no one really wanted music, and besides it was well known that one of the neighbours was a senior PPP official. Some people did dance in near silence, and some laughed jaggedly, but it was hard to feel joy. It was a relief to leave, a different kind from my usual relief at leaving a wedding. The parents of the groom seemed a pleasant pair, it’s sad.
A plane crash, the pandemic, economic crisis, unemployment amongst migrant workers abroad and failed crops all over the country with locust swarms expected. A sad time.