The cold, foreign wind swept across Washma's face as she stepped out of Heathrow Airport, a place she had only seen in films and dreams. Her hands clutched the handle of her cabin bag tightly, heart racing beneath layers of nervous excitement and quiet fear. This was it—her new beginning.
The flight from Lahore had been long—twelve hours in total, with a short layover at Doha Airport. She barely slept. Her body ached, and her eyes stung with exhaustion, but her heart was far too restless to rest. She had sat near the window during the flight, watching the clouds part beneath her, knowing every passing minute was creating more distance from the life she once knew.
Now, she stood alone among strangers, the cool air of London hitting her face like a quiet shock. Her fingers tightened around her passport and cabin bag.
It had only been half a day—but it already felt like a lifetime ago when her mother hugged her at the Lahore airport, whispering duas into her ears with teary eyes.
Then, a kind elderly man waved at her from near the arrivals gate.
"Washma beta?"
She nodded, relieved. "Ji… Assalamualaikum, Uncle."
"Walaikumassalam," he replied, opening his arms warmly. His voice was calm, his presence familiar in a place where everything else felt foreign. "Welcome to London, meri bachi. Let's get home".
---
The Drive Through a Foreign Land:
As the car moved slowly through the wide, clean roads of West London, Washma leaned against the window, watching a city so polished and quiet, it almost didn't feel real. Rows of Victorian houses passed by, dressed in soft pastel tones. Parks opened up like paintings, with cherry blossom trees standing in bloom, their petals floating through the air like gentle farewells.
In the distance, double-decker buses hummed past, and people walked briskly along the pavements with coffee in hand, bundled up in thick coats. It all felt like a movie scene—too calm, too cold, too far from everything she had ever known.
With every passing street, every mile forward, she felt as though she was leaving her world behind.
As the car moved forward, the memories of Lahore drifted behind her like a faded song—the sound of her mother's laughter, the teasing of her younger sister, her father's voice echoing through the house, and Imran's hand patting her head for strength. She could feel Pakistan slipping away in the rearview mirror, becoming smaller and smaller, like a life lived in another dream.
She swallowed hard.
"I can do this," she whispered softly. "I have to."
---
Arrival at the House:
They pulled into the driveway of an old but well-maintained four-bedroom house. The neighborhood was quiet, and the air still. The house had aged with time, but it stood firm—like it belonged in this structured world of rules and routines.
Inside, the house was filled—not just with people, but with years of life. Smells of curry lingered from the kitchen, the walls bore photos from another time, and the sounds of children echoed faintly through the halls.
Her grandfather's cousin, Uncle Rehmat, welcomed her inside with a humble grace. He was a practicing Muslim, kind and calm, his eyes soft with years of wisdom. His gentle manner, his soft voice—so much like her late grandfather—was the only comfort she had found since stepping off the plane.
Then came his wife, a woman with a sharp, observant gaze and an expression that carried quiet pride. She wasn't openly unkind, but every word she spoke seemed measured.
"Washma, you'll stay with us in our room for now," she said with a stiff smile. "We don't have a separate room, so you can put your bedding on the floor at night. It's a bit tight, but you'll manage."
Washma nodded, silently swallowing her discomfort. "That's fine, Aunty. Thank you."
She followed them into their bedroom—As the bedroom door creaked open, Washma stepped in quietly behind Aunty. The room was modest in size, neat, but clearly lived-in. Uncle's side of the room had a few old books and prayer beads on the nightstand. Aunty's side was tidy and cold, with a vanity full of perfumes and stacked jewelry boxes. In the corner, a thin mattress was rolled up—clearly for her.
Her eyes scanned the room. It wasn't what she imagined. No privacy, no personal space, no quiet corner to call her own, but she said nothing.She just gave a tired smile.
Aunty pointed to the floor without much expression.
"You'll sleep there for now. We don't have extra rooms, unfortunately. Keep your things neat. Don't make a mess. I hope you understand."
Washma nodded politely, clutching the handle of her cabin bag tighter.
---
Just then, Uncle Rehmat walked into the room, noticing Washma's quiet eyes and heavy silence.
"Beta," he said kindly, pulling his phone from his pocket, "you told me your phone broke during transit, right? You must be tired, but call home. Tell your parents you reached safely. They must be waiting."
Washma looked up, a flicker of emotion behind her tired smile.
"JazakAllah Uncle," she whispered, taking the phone with both hands as if it were something sacred. "They must be worried."
He nodded, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Take your time. We're your family here too."
She walked quietly to the corner of the room, sat on the edge of the mattress, and dialed the number. Her fingers trembled slightly as the call connected. The moment she heard Ammi's voice, soft and already teary, her chest tightened.
"Ammi… I'm here. I reached. I'm safe."
No words could describe what those simple sentences carried within them—relief, sorrow, distance, love, and the beginning of a long journey
----
Their house had four bedrooms on the first floor, all already occupied:
Saliha, their divorced daughter, lived in one room with her young daughter. Saliha was blunt and impatient—rarely warm, and often critical. She seemed to see Washma as an unnecessary addition to the household.
Ali, the elder son, shared another room with his wife and three daughters—ages 3, 6, and 12. His family was the warmest part of the household. Ali himself reminded Washma of her brother Imran. He was kind, protective, and helpful. His wife was gentle and his daughters often brought light, childish energy to the otherwise heavy atmosphere.
Adeel, the younger son, had a room to himself. Unmarried and surrounded by questionable friends, Adeel often came home late at night, sometimes with people Washma didn't recognize. The sound of loud music, laughter, and the smell of sheesha were not uncommon. He was dismissive of Washma and, along with Saliha, often made her feel out of place.
The fourth bedroom belonged to Uncle and Aunty. Since there was no guest room, Washma had to sleep on a mattress on the floor in their bedroom—a fact Aunty made no effort to make comfortable.
---
A Life of Contrast:
Washma wasn't deeply religious, nor was she excessively modern. She was simply someone raised in warmth, in love, in the security of gentle boundaries. This house, though filled with Muslims, lived differently than what she knew. The values were blurred, the spaces unkind, the boundaries cracked.
Still, she found strength in her uncle's kindness, in Ali's quiet support. He helped her with her university documents, showed her bus routes, and made sure she ate. His kindness reminded her of home—and gave her a reason not to fall apart.
---
The night settled heavy around her. Washma lay quietly on the thin mattress rolled out in the corner of Uncle Rehmat and his wife's bedroom, just across from their large double bed. The air was cold, not just from the unfamiliar climate, but from the quietness of the space around her.
Upstairs, on the first floor, all four bedrooms were filled—some with laughter, some with silence, and some with tension she hadn't yet learned to navigate.
But here in the corner, on a mattress close to the ground, her mind drifted—softly, longingly—back home.
---
FlashBack — Pakistan ,A Few Weeks Ago
It was late. The drawing room in their Lahore home glowed with soft amber light, the cool floor cushions tossed around carelessly. Washma, her elder brother Imran, and younger sister Zainab were sprawled across the rug, whispering and laughing under their breath.
"Yaar, let's make aloo cheese parathas again," Zainab whispered, excited.
"With ketchup and chai!" Washma added.
"And this time let's not wake up Ammi," Imran said with a mischievous grin—already knowing they probably would.
They tiptoed toward the kitchen like little burglars, trying not to creak the wooden cabinets. But just as Imran turned on the stove—
"Kya ho raha hai yahaan?" their father's voice rang from the hallway.
They froze.
There he stood in his cotton night kurta, his expression pretending to be stern—but his eyes gave him away.
"Midnight crime partners again?" he sighed, walking into the kitchen.
"Chalo, make one for me too. But don't burn the chai like last time."
The three of them laughed uncontrollably. It was one of those simple, unrepeatable moments—messy, loud, and full of love.
---
Back To Present — London
Now, across continents and silence, that memory wrapped itself around her heart like a warm shawl.
There was no such laughter here. Only the ticking of the clock, the distant footsteps from another bedroom, and the sound of Uncle's soft breathing nearby.
Washma pulled the blanket closer.
"How strange," she thought. "The plane was meant to take me far away, but tonight... all of them feel closer than ever."
And as her eyes finally began to close, her father's voice echoed faintly in her head:
"Don't burn the chai…"
A tear slipped quietly onto her pillow, followed by the smallest smile.
---