'Monsoon Season' by Abida Akram

Between jobs and bored. Blindfolded, I stuck a pin in a map. It was the Punjab in Pakistan.

 

I had two weeks, the last week in June and the first week in July. I packed my lightest summer clothes and a cotton scarf to cover my hair. A room at the Ramada hotel in Lahore and an Emirates airline ticket booked online were an expensive shock. 

On the flight from Heathrow, I was the only white person, the others – Pakistanis going back home. Would it be too hot? Hopefully everyone would speak English. I only knew one word ‘Shukriya’. 

Landing in Lahore, walking down the steps to the tarmac, every bit of moisture in and on my body evaporated instantly. It was 42 degrees centigrade! The smell was of dry dust. The sunlight was so brilliant, it hurt to look.

The hotel’s air-conditioning, a relief, and siestas were a must. I visited tourist sites early in the morning and in the evening due to the heat. The Fort and the Badshahi Masjid, where cool marble floors eased my feet with shoes left outside. The walled city and red buildings were a delight. The markets in the evenings seethed with the chatter of people. 

Children and women followed, fascinated by my red face and blond hair. When the monsoons came in July, the sheer force was new to me. I went out to the hotel gardens and terraces when the warm showers began, whilst everyone else ran inside.

The joy of having a warm shower in the open air and the massage of pelting fat, heavy drops on my skin and cotton dress was heaven. The staff shook their head in bemusement at my Bollywood wet scene. It was glorious and I was so glad that I had come.