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seemed to make friends with anyone and everyone who could claim any connection to the geography in question—so that strangers, encountered in grocery stores, malls, movie theaters, or restaurants, became part of an intimate circle of friends that always felt like family.
    This feeling was underlined by the culturally appropriate titles of “auntie” and “uncle” by which Ameena and I referred to these friends of our parents. Totally different from the less intimate Mr.’s and Mrs.’s that we used to refer to neighbors and acquaintances outside of that circle: people who were white, black, or anything other than desi —a slang word for compatriot that was more about geography than religion, ethnicity, race, or even nationality.
    It was always rather confusing, on visits to Pakistan, to be confronted with a whole population of aunties and uncles. To look into the faces of racially familiar people who looked back at me with the blank strangers’ stares that I unconsciously associated with people of another hue. And part of my discomfort, on that journey with Razia Nani, was due directly to the fear that all of the brown people on the plane must know who we were…must bear some relation to my family within a number of degrees that made their passive participation in Razia Nani’s discourse less than disinterested.
    Her revelations began just after we boarded. I was breathless, having barely managed to lug both of our carry-on bags on board and into the overhead bin, where Razia Nani had decided they must rest.
    “ Hanh, Beta. Shabaash. Very good. You see, I must have the room for my poor old legs. Ahh! They are already hurting. They swell up so badly on an airplane. And carrying all that luggage only makes it worse. And my bag is soooo heavy! All those chocolates to carry! I hope they know, in Karachi, all the trouble I go to, bringing them soooo much chocolate. I know how they like it. But still, I don’t think they realize how difficult it is. I’m an old lady, now, and my legs can’t take it. Of course, I love to give people happiness. And if suffering a little, carrying all those expensive chocolates—they’re so expensive nowadays, I don’t think they realize how much I’m giving them—if suffering a little is what it takes to make others happy—well, then, I’m glad for my suffering. Yes, I am glad to do it.”
    Since the only one who had suffered so far was me—I had bruises on my legs, I could feel them, from where the heavy bag kept banging against them—I was rather skeptical about the depth of her sacrifice. Her bag was heavy, that was true, and I worried about the weight restrictions that had been written and displayed clearly at the check-in counter. I had pointed them out to Razia Nani, thinking she may have been unaware of them. But she had waved her hand furiously, worried that the attendant might hear my concern and actually check the weight of the bag, which she told me to carry casually, in a manner that would disguise how heavy it was. I briefly imagined the plane crashing, all because of the weight of Razia Nani’s chocolates, and hoped that her self-described willingness to suffer for the happiness of others would not have to be stretched to lethal limits.
    We buckled our seat belts and Razia Nani made herself comfortable. She took both the armrests and spilled a little into my seat, making me shrink toward the window a bit in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid getting pinned in.
    She issued forth a long, deep sigh, suggestive of much greater burdens than a bagful of English chocolates. “ Aré, Beta! How I wish your mother were here! It has been such a long time since I’ve seen Shabana. My heart longs to set eyes on her. But of course, one can understand. I don’t blame her for not coming. I don’t know what your Jamila Khala is thinking.” She shook her head, placed her hand hard on her voluminous chest with an audible whack, approximately where I suppose she thought her heart