They always hold back lighters at Karachi airport and I always negotiate my way into keeping them. I have done the drill enough times. The other day, the security guard presented me with a steel Zippo lighter he had earlier confiscated and requested that I not light it on the plane. I assured him that I would not and thanked him for his thoughtful gesture and wise counsel. It’s the thought that counts.

Emirates on the Pakistan route is not especially inspiring. The meals for one are strangely conceived. They served me a terrible steamed haddock in a “saffron gravy”, a western potato mash served with parathas, a small bottle of achar and sliced boiled carrots, and three prawns, which appeared fried. I was not hungry anyway after forgetting my laptop in Karachi and the grumpy flight attendant added to the blah of the journey.

In the meanwhile, back at 63/1, my mother hired a chap called Lehaaz to replace Gulbahar who abruptly resigned the third time to take up a job as a driver. He does not know how to drive. I shall miss Gulbahar though I know he might come back. All staff are welcome back in my home thanks to my mom’s maternal management style and liberal monetary policies. He was a die-hard fan of Imran Khan but would only vote for Zardari he once told me with his impish smirk. My mother’s new recruit—with a name like Lehaaz (literally “consideration”)—should have definitely shown more lehaaz while helping me pack my bric a brac and reminded me about my laptop. With my belongings scattered across three homes of friends and family, a rented flat, and a hotel left luggage, I often lose track of what’s where.

I landed at Dubai airport with the spastic pinging of my phone. Five missed calls and three messages ushering me to a meeting in Cafe Bateel. I decided to do the honorable thing and go straight to the meeting. The usual chatter I know by heart but at least this time, they paid for lunch, unlike the others.