Sultana

Yesterday it was 70 degrees and sunny in Washington D.C., where I am writing this missive. Today it’s raining, and tomorrow it’s likely to snow. Typical D.C. bullshit — the offer of a grand promise, the subsequent haggling when the promise is deemed too controversial or expensive, and then, eventually, a denial that the promise ever existed. I’ve only been in the city where I was born for a day and I’m already exhausted by the political machinations that undercut every conversation.

I’m here to go through my Pakistani family’s rich history with my aunt as she lets go of many of the heirlooms she’s graciously stored for decades. We spent yesterday morning going through her collection of ghararas, beautifully embroidered tunics and wide-legged pantaloons made of silk, brocade, and other finely-spun fabrics. Each holds a story of our beautifully foreign origins and the convoluted path each member of my father’s family took to citizenship. I chose a gold brocade gharara, because my name literally means “princess king” and I’ve finally accepted my place in this world.