We left Pakistan under the cover of darkness in November 1972. Zulfikar Ali Bhutto was in power and according to the family lore, and as it’s documented in my father’s obituary,  my parents had learned of a plot by Bhutto to arrest and torture my father.

So on relatively short notice, passports were arranged,visas were obtained, and with just a few belongings, we all piled into our mustard orange-colored Volkswagen van and drove over the border to Afghanistan. We spent about five days there, in Kabul, and then carried on to Iran.

I had my fifth birthday in Tehran. It seems strange to say now, but  in 1972, Tehran was my first exposure to what I came to associate with the West. It was the first time I saw an escalator. The first time I experienced toy stores abundant with a variety of things with which to play, and the first time I experienced square slices of  cheese that were made to fit perfectly on sliced bread, also a novelty.

From Tehran, we flew to Madrid, where my parents left us with their friends, Mehru Aunty and Rahim Uncle, while they carried on to the US to search for a house for us. Rahim Uncle was the Pakistani Ambassador to Spain and they were busy with their diplomatic duties and their own two children and yet generous and kind enough to look after the six of us. By now we ranged in age from five to seventeen.

In Madrid I had strawberry yogurt for the first time and the dreaded liverwurst sandwiches that were packed for us to take to the park every day. I also learned to tie my shoes.

In early 1973, after a short stay in London, we arrived in West Hartford, Connecticut where we moved into a small house on 17 Wiltshire Lane.

In an interview with the local paper published in August 1973, my mother said that she felt “a little boxed in,” referring to the Wiltshire Lane house. Understandable.  The chicken business had done well and my parents had left behind several residences in Pakistan.

There was Dumlotti, the seven acre farm (where the dairy farm was located) near Karachi. And Rocky Ridge, a beautiful stone house in Mansehra in the North West Frontier Province which had become our main residence in the late 1960s. And Miranjani House, a rustic mountain retreat in Nathiagali which is a hill station in the foothills of the Himalayas, and our apartment at the Sindh Club, a sort of residential country club in the middle of Karachi which I adored.

My parents chose Connecticut because they had friends in the area and also because the West Hartford public schools, at the time, were among the top five systems in the country.

Ours was not the classic immigrant experience. My parents did not want to leave Pakistan. If anything, they wanted to stay and help build the new nation. I always thought we had to leave because my father’s older brother, Air Marshal (ret’d) Asghar Khan had run for Prime Minister against Bhutto. But then wouldn’t his family have been the one to flee the country?

One of my cousins once told me she thought Bhutto was targeting my father because of his association with Arbor Acres. That, because it was an American company, Bhutto thought my father was connected to the CIA, which I’m certain he wasn’t.

We stayed in the Wiltshire Lane house only about a year. And then in 1974 came 112 Stoner Drive.