Walking out of the plane, I step onto the familiar stone floors of Karachi airport. Lugging my suitcase to my side, I attempt to rub the grogginess from my eyes. "I hope Nani hasn't waited long. "I can't wait to see her," I think to myself. Passengers file out of the plane behind us as we continue down the hall. Some shops are open, selling water and Coca-Cola or magnets and clothes. Clerks
attempt to coax us into their shops, but my mom and I do not lose sight of our goal. We wait for our bags.

​

"There," my mom points. Heaving our even more giant suitcases, we finally reach the automatic glass doors, giving us a way into the oven-like weather of Pakistan. I scan the hoards of people pressing their bodies against the barriers, waving and welcoming travelers. Finally, I see Nani. Despite my tiredness, I run into her soft, cradle-like arms with the luggage. The familiar scent of her perfume wafts into my nose.

I wish this was real, but really it is a dream. Beep, beep! Hearing my alarm brings me back into the world, away from my imagination. My bed creaks as I turn over with much difficulty. For some reason, my unbelievably uncomfortable bed is comfortable when I have to wake up, yet it is a pain when I try to sleep. Alexa tells me the time (7:05 am) and the weather. I contemplate staying inside
the warm cocoon of my comforter. But every butterfly must stretch their wings if they want to fly. I remember my daily Minnesota routine. Pencil-chalked homework made a mountain on my desk, and I saw eraser shavings coating the carpet of my room. I wonder if anything will be different. My mom's voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I rise like a sloth. Eyelids desperately fluttering to stay
awake.

I look at my phone: Karachi, 1:30 am. Groaning, I try to fight my jetlag and turn over my pillow to get a few more hours of sleep. Eventually giving up, I start aimlessly watching TV, coloring, and reading. A couple of hours later, I sprint down the winding stairs of my Nani and Nana's house. I am careful not to slip on the marble floors. Pictures of my mom in her teens cover the walls. She looks
much different, almost like a rebel with her permed 80s hair and impeccable fashion sense. I see rows and rows of knickknacks my grandmother has collected over the years and a wall covered in a faded world map with rainbow pins and thumbtacks marking the places she has been. In the dining room, I see freshly made buttery parathas sitting puffed up on ceramic plates. A jug of deep burgundy pomegranate juice sat with a plate of golden omelets by its side. I sit, crisscrossing my legs on the chairs, so my feet wouldn't get bitten alive by mosquitos that lurk in the dark under the table. After breakfast, in the garden, I bask in the sunlight with Nani while she tells me stories from the past or about the many artifacts in her household or mini museum.

"There is a test next class, everyone. Make sure to actively study!" These words pull me out of my daydreaming. "I must have been zoned out again," I think. School and life in Minnesota make me contemplate. Every day, I get up, go to school, and repeat. Homework is more of a bore than a chore now. When I am in Minnesota, I seem to talk more to myself than to actual people. I am quite used to the 50-60 Fahrenheit degree weather. The relative quiet is comforting, yet so is the stuttering of rickshaw engines on the street and the sound of The Call to Prayer from the neighborhood mosques in Pakistan.

​

The cold of Minnesota has its solemn charm. It's like black coffee. An acquired taste, at first, is bitter, but soon it becomes a daily endeavor you live with. You forget how it was before any different. Pakistan is like a raspberry. The texture is smooth yet bumpy, different at every edge. It has the sourness of mistakes, but the sweetness of family and love overrides it. The problem is those good things never last forever, and the raspberry is eaten in one bite.

Being with family gives a kick of joy. So many people are there, yet, you are not overwhelmed. Even though I am not in Pakistan for long, it feels like home, as much as Minnesota does. Ginormous engulfing hugs from aunties and dance parties with my cousins till one in the morning. The pandemic has made it difficult for my mom and me to revisit Pakistan. This leaves me with an emptiness or a loss of balance. The sweetness of the raspberry in my life has disappeared, and now I am only left with bitter coffee. The worst part is that I don't know when the season will come when the raspberries can be picked again. I sometimes feel conflicted about whether I am more Pakistani or American, but I realized that it is OK to have two homes, two places that are special in their own unique ways. Everything doesn't have to be all or nothing. In fact, I think it is better to be a mix.