On April 14th, 1973, two beautiful souls came together. One year later, in 1974, they welcomed their firstborn, a son, then in 1976, 1977, 1982, three daughters, and, much to the disappointment of all the elders in the family, in 1987, their last daughter. This was their fifth child and fourth daughter, and despite all attempts to abort the baby, the couple eventually decided to keep it. Or as my mother would say, you were too stubborn, you refused to not be born.

This year, on April 14, my parents will celebrate 52 years together. When I look back at my childhood, I cannot help but wonder how perfect it was. My father’s love, care, and wisdom, and my mother’s resilience, joy, and optimism kept us nourished. The strength I received as a child, I carry with me wherever I go. There was always a certain type of lightness in our house, a kind of magic, which was created by my parents’ love for each other. We lived in all sorts of circumstances, but never felt poor or rich; we lived. Our lives felt so full and abundant.

My parents’ marriage is a unique love story. Like many people in those days, my father had not met my mother until the wedding day. My father likes to tell this story over and over again, I believe simply because he finds great pleasure in recalling how he met my mother. He often says it was destined, and the stars had aligned themselves to bring them together. A familiar friend of my maternal uncle and my father introduced them to each other. My father mentioned to my uncle how he is looking for a bride. At the age of 28, he had recently returned from Britain, where he completed his Master’s in Business Administration and had joined the Pakistan Civil Services. My father’s profile was rather attractive, but he came from a humble background. My mother had just finished her BA and was merely 22 years old. She was an orphan, but she came from a landed family. Neither of them was a native Lahori, but somehow, in 1974, fate brought them to the same city. It was that year when my uncle had this chance encounter with my father, and he introduced my father to my grandmother. One thing led to another, and my parents got married. Fifty-two years later, they have raised five children, who live immensely adventurous and enriching lives, and ten grandchildren, who supersede me and my siblings in every possible way.

I often look at my own life. I believe I was sent to New York by a strange force in the universe. It is only upon looking back that we can see the hand of destiny. The present moment is lost to us. So, I say a prayer for my beloved parents and the man to whom I have dedicated the rest of my life. It is my love for him that functions like a life force and, despite all odds, keeps me going, keeps my heart warm, and reminds me of my magical childhood.

As long as one loves, one lives.