My dad is going to Pakistan on his tri-yearly trip next week, so I went over to his for the weekend to spend some time with him, the usual hi-and-bye. Unfortunately my mum is currently in Pakistan and my sister is overwhelmed with final year exams at university, so it was just me and him. It’s not unusual for me to feel a little anxious before I go home. There’s always something my parents will be unhappy with, whether it’s the way I look or how late I arrive. But I had only been home for a few hours and I wished I was staying for longer.

Home. I actively avoided using that word when referring to my dad’s house, but suddenly its there, embedded twice in my opening paragraph. Where really is home? Home is where the heart is right. I guess I have to stop kidding myself that I haven’t got my heart tied to family. I almost feel like  I’m cheating on the city I live in. Anyway, that is another personal catharsis yet to happen.

In any South Asian household, when looking for the latest gadget, or household appliance, or even a pair of shoes, you will be sure to hear, “I can get that for half the price in Pakistan/India”. So it’s common for family to prepare an extensive list of items that the chosen one will buy for less and bring back. My sister and I used to compile hundreds of films for my dad to bring back. Wouldn’t customs notice, I hear you enquire. Well yes of course they do, there are 250 DVDs in my dad’s suitcase. But nothing 500 Rs. won’t fix. My mother and father both asked whether I needed anything, and since the recent blocks on The Pirate Bay I probably should’ve got another list together. Instead I asked for some shalwar kameez, something comfy just to wear around the house. It’s super expensive here and at least in Pakistan I can get a tailored suit of my taste. I haven’t worn one in ages, probably because they’re for girls and very fitted. It makes me uncomfortable and I’ve refused to go to weddings if I have to wear it. So I guess dad was surprised when I asked him to get me a suit made.

When dad asked for my measurements, I realised he was getting measurements as if he was going to get a girl’s shalwar kameez. I had to quickly correct him because the thought of wearing a fitted kurta gave me the heebie-jeebies. Dad then got the tape out and measured me up for a men’s suit, which was quite exciting, not what I’m used to. No intrusive bust measurement or around the hips. It was over quickly and I had to make my mind up about whether I wanted cuffs or side pockets or an inside zip pocket, details I didn’t really know what to think of. I then got carried away and told my dad to get me a pair of these.

A few minutes later after discussing embroidery and fabric colour, how exciting, he suddenly asked, “Do you wish you were a boy?”

My eyes widened, thoughts raced, pulse quickened. Is he serious? What do I say? What does he think? What will he say?

“What makes you say that?” My response to most questions when I need more time to answer.

“Well, you want this men’s kurta, and you wear boys pants… Do you wish you were a boy?” Dad had just done a load of my laundry. (Yes I took my laundry home to do. I’m still a student, let’s not forget.)

“Sometimes.”

“Really? Do you think about it a lot?”

“Yeah…”

“I hope it doesn’t worry you. You don’t mope about it…?”

“Sometimes, yeah I guess.”

“Hmm.”

The silence that followed forced a topic change.

I think I asked him to get me some spice mixes from Pakistan (gosh I’m so Asian it hurts) and we discussed masala. I retired to my room to compose myself and write down what had just happened.

Wow. Not what I expected at all. Have I just come out to my dad? Maybe not, but I totally misjudged him. It is going to be easier than I thought. I can’t believe this. His reaction was surprisingly placid. He was almost joking when he asked, with a little smile and more inquisition than anything. And he didn’t seem angry or hostile or disappointed. Emotions he often displays towards me. He seemed concerned I guess, like he wanted to know how I really felt. Which was actually really, really nice.

Just before we went to bed, he said that he wanted to talk to me about what was mentioned earlier, properly. What do I say? How do I say it? READ MY BLOG. No shush, Smash, be serious; I need to prepare myself. If I wasn’t so exhausted from the week I had, that would’ve kept me up all night.

What happened the next day is still pretty fresh in my memory. Despite this, I’m going to sleep on it, let it sink in and blog about it tomorrow. I know I’ve been shit at keeping up appearances but notice ‘part 1 of 2’ in the title. And so it will be. Now I’ve committed. It’s practically a written contract. I’ll have to see you soon. So much for free will.