Here’s a photo of Clare that I found in my box of old photos, also taken in 1979. She is the one with the camera on the right, and my mother is on the left. Muna is draped in the chaador. I’m not sure where this photo was taken, but I think it was in the Northern areas of Pakistan on a trip they took to the Yasin Valley, a high mountain valley in the Hindu Kush mountains in the northwest region of Gilgit. Mimo, Puchi and I stayed back in Islamabad because we had to go to school.

On the wall in our dining room, I have a photo that Clare took on that trip to Pakistan in 1979. She took the photo from our house in Abbottabad. The mud huts in the photo were in the valley below our house. She signed this photo and gave it to my parents and I have lovingly cared for it for many years. I had to re-frame it a few years ago because the frame started falling apart, but the photo has remained clear and beautiful. Not that you would know that from looking at the photo below. Something is wrong with our scanner.

I tried to take a photo with my iPhone, but it is not much better. You can sort of make out Clare’s signature on the bottom right.

When I emailed Clare the other day I wrote, “I am 42 years old now.” Almost as old as she would have been when I first met her.

I can’t remember exactly when these passport photos were taken, but probably shortly before we left Pakistan in November 1972. Here I am, four years old. Please notice the fly sitting on my headband. Couldn’t they have taken one more photo, or did they intentionally choose the one with the fly on my head?

Here’s Puchi, or Chanel No. 5. She changed the spelling of her nickname from Pouchi to Puchi many years ago. I think she got her nickname when she was the youngest child and my mother affectionately called her Puchra which I think means tail since she was on the tail end of the kids. As she got older she became Pouchi, now Puchi.  She’s four years older than me, born in August 1963 so she would have been nine years old when this photo was taken. Puchi and I were named by my mother. I think the rest of my siblings were named by my grandmother, my father’s mother. I was always grateful that my mother named us since our names seemed a bit more contemporary than those chosen for my other siblings. All of us share the same middle name, Afzal, to signify that we are our father’s children, a common practice in Pakistan.

And here’s Mimo, or Fazilet. Also known as Fizz or Fizzy, or Fizzy O’Flynn. She changed the spelling of her nickname from Memo to Mimo some years back. I think Mimo came from Mimra, probably some word of affection my mother made up when Mimo was the youngest child. Mimra turned into Memo, now Mimo (pronounced Meemo). She was born in October 1961 so she would have been 11 years old when this photo was taken.

Here’s Tito. His given name is Asad and he was born in August 1960. I have no idea  how he got his nickname. Although he was a bit of a sickly child, he went on to be a great athlete and had a successful career as an officer in the US Marine Corp, carrying on the military lineage.

Here’s Muna. My grandmother  named her Gulfiza which may be reason enough for the nickname. She was born in November 1958. Bookish from the start. And can we say eyebrow wax? I do like her outfit and the peace sign necklace.

And finally, Baba. He was named Samad, and his American friends shortened it to Sam when they had a hard time pronouncing it. He is the first born child which probably explains his nickname, Baba, which is a name usually reserved for elders, not necessarily first-born eldest children, but it stuck. Baba was a  new year’s baby born on January 1, 1956. He’s the greedy one among us, refusing to divide my parents’ estate after they died. (Note to Baba: If you are reading this, shame on you). None of us siblings is close to him anymore.

Shortly after we moved into the Stoner Drive house, I asked my mother why Aba (a version of “Dad” in Urdu) did not have a job.

“You think your father does not work?” my mother asked, lounging on a sofa in the Breakfast Room while motioning for me to pass her the packet of Kent cigarettes which were slightly out of her reach.

“All my friends’ fathers go to work every morning. To an office. And Aba doesn’t. I think he should get a job,” I said with disdain as I handed her the cigarettes. Too young to understand that the lifestyle to which I was becoming accustomed was thanks to my father’s work.

My father was blacklisted from Pakistan and was unable to travel back for a few years after we moved to Connecticut. His business was still in Pakistan and he was running it from our home in Connecticut. Nowadays we call this “working remotely,” but back then we didn’t have the kinds of technologies that make working at home seamless like email, instant messaging, mobile phones, Skype, or even answering machines for that matter.

We did have fancy phones in the Stoner house, though. They were office  phones, clunky by today’s standards but state of the art for 1974. They had lots of buttons that would light up and flash when the phone would ring or if you put someone on hold.

The phones also functioned as a sort of intercom system. Let’s say you were in the kitchen and picked up the phone when it rang, and the person on the other end asked for my sister Muna. There was a good chance Muna would be lazing around somewhere with her nose in a book. Your first guess might be that she was in the Sun Room, so you’d press the button marked Sun Room and say, “Muna, you have a call on line 1” without ever having to leave the kitchen. Since you wouldn’t have to go running all around the house trying to locate people, this saved quite a bit of time.

I always thought the fancy phones looked out of place since they were very clearly office phones, but the advanced intercom technology was worth it. As was the hold button which I noticed other people did not have in their homes. I know my father liked these phones as well since he seemed to use them a lot. Often at odd hours of the day and night. I later came to understand that this was because of the time difference between Pakistan and Connecticut.

At the time, it did not occur to me that talking on the phone was work. But now, I get it. I am in phone meetings or conference calls most of the day, often when I am working from home.

Is that a call coming in? Please hold.

I had quite a lot of chores to do when I was growing up. When we moved from 17 Wiltshire Lane to 112 Stoner Drive, my responsibilities grew in proportion to the size of the new house, which was huge.

Prior to this I was expected to fetch things for my mother, as well as my older brothers and sisters since I was the youngest, and my family likes the hierarchy structure. These requests were usually manageable because the Wiltshire Lane House was not that big– downstairs it had a living room, dining room, small family room and kitchen and upstairs we had three bedrooms, or four if you count the large closet that I think Mimo slept in. So when someone asked me to fetch them a glass of water or empty an ashtray, or answer the phone, or set the table for dinner, I could usually fulfill the request in good time.

In 1974 my parents sold the Dumlotti farm outside of Karachi, and the sale allowed them to purchase a larger home in Connecticut for the eight of us.

I remember them saying to us kids, “We can live in a nice house, bigger than Wiltshire Lane and have more money to spend, or we can live in a really big house with a swimming pool and not have that much money to spend. Which do you prefer?”

I think we said we needed to see the houses before we could advise them. So they took us to 112 Stoner Drive. We drove up a hill and pulled into a long driveway and slowly emerged a beautiful English Tudor home. It had a rose garden, a swimming pool, a “play house” which we called the Little House, a three room cabin with a small kitchen and a bathroom, that I’m sure many people would be glad to actually live in. There was a green house, and a carriage house which had eight garages and a 3-bedroom apartment. The grounds were also big, with large trees and a small stream in the back yard. We loved it. And we quickly advised my parents to purchase it, which they did.

The house had 11 bedrooms, more than one for each of us and then some. And another 12 rooms downstairs which included a kitchen and pantry, each of which are larger than some apartments I have since lived in. It had a breakfast room with hand-painted wallpaper, a formal living room and dining room, a billiard room, which we came to call the big room, because, well, it was big. The house had a sun room, a library, a television room, a laundry room and three staircases not counting the ones to the full attic and basement. It also had an elevator. I was particularly excited at the prospect of having a library which I assumed meant that we would all have to check books out, so I asked my parents if I could be the librarian.

The house was known as the Stoner mansion because the Stoner family built it. Later I came to understand the many meanings associated with the Stoner mansion. But more on that later.

112 Stoner Drive was fabulous and for many years it was a bustling place. We really enjoyed it, but the chores began to take on a life of their own.

For instance, the coffee that I had to bring my mother in bed every morning was a bit of a challenge. For one thing, she preferred it in a tea cup and saucer and it was quite a distance from the kitchen, which was on one end of the house, and my parents bedroom was on the opposite end of the house up a flight of stairs. Sometimes this trip could take up to five or more minutes. And I had to make sure not to spill the coffee from the dainty tea cup that would teeter dangerously on the saucer. I think my mother thought mugs were clunky and garrish. I worried that the coffee might get cold in the teacup by the time I got to my parents room, but my mother never complained about that.

It was also my job to water all the plants. We had many plants. My mother had a green thumb and a green house. One day I decided to count the plants and I counted more than one hundred, and that was just inside the house. So this task would take me a while. Or I’d have to empty all the trash bins in the house, one in each room and bathroom. I think that’s about thirty or so trash bins.

My sister Puchi and I also usually had to set and clear the table after dinner which we usually ate in the formal dining room. And then we’d have to load (and/or unload) the dishwashers, one in the pantry, and one in the kitchen. This early childhood training in all things entertaining has served me well. I’ve learned to be very particular (some would say fussy) about things like serving dishes and matching napkins and other things related to hosting a good party.

I still have an article from the local paper which ran a story about my family purchasing the house. “One of West Hartford’s largest houses–the 21 room Stoner Mansion at 112 Stoner Drive–rings once again with the sounds of an active family and will soon be the scene of international parties.” All true, but who do you think had to fetch drinks for the international jet set? I mean I didn’t actually start mixing cocktails until much later, but I did have to take drink orders and other such things that came with entertaining on a large scale. My mother is quoted in the paper, “This house embodies the way I like to live.” Well, if that isn’t the truth.

The younger you were in my family, the more you had to do. Once my mother asked me to pour a glass of lemonade and go outside to the driveway and wait for my brother Tito who was out for a run. Somehow, I knew to draw the line here. First of all, the image of standing out in the driveway with a glass of lemonade, waiting for my brother to return from a run, was too much for even me who was used to doing all kinds of things for people. For one thing, how did we know when he would return? Was he on a  two-mile run or an eight-mile run?  So I said simply, “No. He can get his own lemonade.” 

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 think this is the van we drove across the border.

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.

I think this photo of me was taken on my fifth birthday in Tehran. December, 1972.

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.

Drinking milk makes me gag. I’m not lactose intolerant or anything since I love cheese and all things cream-based, especially soups and sauces, but for some reason, I hate milk. Maybe because I was made to drink it as a small child?

There’s a story in my family that my mother was the first person in Pakistan to pasteurize milk. She and my father had six children, so I gather a lot of milk was required for us. I think the milk in Pakistan in the 60s may not have been that good, so my mother started a dairy farm. I’ve never actually fact-checked this. I mean, I do remember the dairy farm, I just don’t know about the first-person-to-pasteurize-milk part. But I believe it to be true. My mother was smart, assertive, and if she wanted something, she made it happen.

By the time she had me, her sixth child, she had perfected the art of parenting. Instead of doing things for me, like making breakfast, or packing a lunch for school, or helping me with my homework, or telling me to go to bed at a reasonable hour, she had me doing things for her.

For example, it was my job every morning to bring her coffee in bed.  Or I’d have to search the house for her packet of Kent cigarettes when she asked me to. And sometimes I would get the dreaded task of rubbing her feet. I also hate feet. Since I was mostly left to my own devices when I was not fetching something for my mother, no one really noticed that I had stopped drinking milk.

When I was eight years old, by now living in Connecticut, I became concerned that I was not getting enough calcium. So I would go down to the kitchen, alone, and after making my mother her cup of coffee and bringing it to her in bed, I would make myself drink a cup of milk. No one made me do this, and no one was ever in the kitchen to watch me drink it since they were usually lounging around in bed while I got myself ready for school. I would shut my eyes, hold my nose and drink it as fast as I could, trying not to gag. I think this lasted about a week. Now I just take a calcium pill and avoid milk altogether.

When I was eighteen, I fell off a horse and fractured my vertebrae in three places. The accident happened in Islamabad when I was visiting my family, after my first year of college. A few years earlier, when I went to middle school in Islamabad, my older sister Puchi and I used to ride horses regularly.

A few years had passed since I had been on a horse and I was feeling, well, not so confident in my  riding abilities. So when Puchi asked me if I wanted to go horseback riding, I reluctantly said, “Um, okay.”

When we got to the riding club, my insecurity was confirmed. “I’m not feeling comfortable on this horse,” I told my sister. So I suggested we just ride around the ring on this first day back in the saddle. At first Puchi seemed agreeable, but after a few minutes of going round and round the ring, she must have gotten bored and off she went. And my horse followed. We rode along the outskirts of the city on riding trails. My horse galloping at various moments trying to keep up with Puchi and her beast. I cursed her the entire ride. And tried to hang on to my horse for dear life.

We were just ending our ride, at a slow trot, about fifty or so yards away from the Club, when I lost my balance. In that second, I made the decision to let go and fall. I sort of remember thinking, lots of people fall off a horse at some point. It will be okay.

And thud. I hadn’t noticed that we were crossing over pavement and I hit the concrete with force. Screaming, all the way down.

After I fell,  Puchi got off her horse and walked over to where I was lying flat on my back on the concrete walkway. “Oh, get up,” she said, sounding a bit annoyed with me.

But I couldn’t. Eventually, I mustered the strength to roll over and pick myself up slowly, all the while in excruciating pain. I somehow managed to put myself in the backseat of a Suzuki that was smaller than the Chevrolet Chevette that we had at my parents house in Connecticut. I’m not really sure an ambulance was even an option let alone a simple call to 911. We were in Pakistan.

We drove to the hospital. I managed to get out of the car and made my way inside after climbing up a steep flight of steps, holding my lower back with my hand and staggering up slowly. Having lived in the US for most of my life, with the exception of junior highschool and these somewhat infrequent visits, I was having a hard time understanding why a hospital would have a flight of steps at its entrance. It was 1986, surely the Pakistani medical community had heard of handicap access ramps?

Then came the x-rays. I had to lift myself onto the x-ray table and while I was lying there, I noticed that the machine had wheels which were tied up. That was about when the medical staff asked me to move over a half of an inch. I think of myself as a generally polite person, but in that moment, I lost it. “Move over a half an inch? You want me to move over a half an inch? Do you know how difficult that is for me? Why don’t you untie the wheels and move the x-ray machine a half an inch. That’s why it has wheels.” All of this was said in English, because my Urdu was not very good. Certainly not good enough to express this kind of frustration. 

They ignored me. Then came the stretcher to take me up to my hospital room. It was about an inch higher than the x-ray table so they asked me if I could please get up on the stretcher. ” You mean, it’s not collapsible?” I cried, incredulous. “Stretchers are meant to be collapsible. That’s the whole point!” They continued to ignore me.

The hospital room was another disaster, as far as I was concerned. For starters, the room was carpeted. Sure it made for a cozier space, “But what about the germs? How can you keep this room sterile if it’s carpeted?” I asked the nurse. She smiled at me, not answering my question. Then she left the room.

That was when I saw a wasp buzzing around my room. I have an irrational fear of wasps, so I started desperately looking for the call button and realized it was behind my head on the wall. I couldn’t reach it. Another flaw. I covered myself in the bed sheet from head to toe to protect myself from the wasp. Fuming. X-ray machines with wheels that don’t move. Carpeted rooms. A call button I can’t reach. And surely the wasp didn’t come from out of nowhere. Was there a wasps nest outside the window?

By now, my mother had been phoned and arrived around the same time the doctor came to pay me a visit. He confirmed that I had fractured my vertebrae and would need to be hospitalized for a few weeks until the swelling went down enough so that they could put on a cast.

“If all I can do is lie here, can’t I just go home and lie in bed?” By now I had complained so much, that finally, exasperated, the doctor, said, “Fine. Go.”

That’s when I realized I could not get out of bed, much less walk. And so I resigned myself to the fact that I would be bed-ridden in the carpeted hospital room. Full of germs. “And if I have to stay here, so do you,” I told Puchi. “You’re the one that made me get on that horse.”

The nurse brought a bed pan so they could take a urine sample. And then I heard some commotion in the hallway. “There’s blood in her urine,” the doctor said to my mother in a hushed tone. “She may be paralyzed for the rest of her life.”

And my mother’s response? “That’s no way to live. Put her down.” As if I were a horse. Fortunately Puchi overheard this conversation and said, “She has blood in her urine because she has her period.” You’d think the nurses would have communicated this when they saw the “sanitary napkin” I was forced to wear. My mother disapproved of tampons.

I have often wondered what was going through my mother’s mind when she said “put her down.” We had a good relationship. I was the studious, responsible, youngest child with good manners who had learned not to give her too much trouble. I’m sure she did not want me dead. Did she think she was sparing me the pain of living with a disability? Did she think they would actually carry out that kind of request?

Puchi spent the night with me, and every night that followed. Rather happily too. I think she was being considerate… and I think she was motivated by the handsome doctor who supplied her (and me) with valium. And that because my mother refused a stronger pain killer. “She’ll get addicted.”

My sister Mimo (pronounced Meemo) changed her name, too, when she got married. Mimo is her family nickname. Her given name (given to her by my grandmother) is Fazilet, and when we moved to the US from Pakistan in 1973 people had a hard time pronouncing it, so her friends shortened it to Fizz. Sometimes affectionately her friends would, and still do, call her Fizzy.

Mimo met Seamus sometime around 1999. And when they got married a few years later, she too said to me, “I’m thinking about changing my name. What do you think?”

Without hesitating, I said, “Do it.” Given my feminist politics, she seemed a bit surprised that I would advocate that she take on her new husband’s name. “Why? she asked skeptically.

“Because then your name will be Fizzy O’Flynn.” What a perfect name for that Pub she’s always wanted to open. And what other brown skinned, brown-eyed, brown-haired South Asian woman do you know with a name like  Fizzy O’Flynn? Very original. One of a kind really. Gives new meaning to the term Black Irish too, I thought.

Even better, I soon realized, were her new initials. Fazilet Khan O’Flynn or FKOF. Perfect for such a bossy older sister.