sapere aude

Irfan Mammoo is a living, breathing menace. Meaning, he’s the only adult that would encourage and willingly drive ten people sitting in a five-seater car. Nonetheless, I can’t help but admire his efforts to include everyone in our late-night plans—including a three-year-old who most definitely won’t even remember this. It’s a risky situation but nothing we would get in trouble for—traffic rules are basically nonexistent in Pakistan, Faisalabad especially. If you’re allowed to man a donkey on the freeway with no punishment, ten people in a five-seater car is nothing. 

The seating arrangement is not ideal but we make do. Irfan Mammoo and his three-year-old daughter Hana sit in the driver's seat—how he drives the car while holding a child beats me. Directly to his left are Awan Mammoo and his two twin daughters Sadia and Aleena. They are seven and tall. I don’t even have time to fathom how cramped it is in the front seat, because it’s the only thing that comes out of their mouth for the entire fifteen-minute car ride. 

The back seat is pure and utter chaos. The three seats are given to Aisha, Ayaan, Isa, and Hasan. They are all sitting on top of each other but understand that they have no room to complain. That’s because Sahar is lying across all of their laps and I am very precariously “sitting” on the glove box in the middle of the car. 

The car is loud and sweltering hot. I can feel the blood rushing to my face and my cheeks hurt from laughing too hard. Every two seconds, Sadia and Aleena are complaining about being pushed up against the window, baby Hana is burping, and Irfan Mammoo is screaming at all of us to be quiet.

When we reach our stop, we pull up to the vendor and grab all the ingredients in large amounts. The younger kids all run to the worn down playground adjacent to the stall while we pick everything we need for our falooda—rose syrup, vermicelli, jello, basil seeds, condensed milk, vanilla ice cream, and chia seeds. 

We all pile into the car again and somehow the car ride is worse on the way back. Hana evolved from burping to farting, we accidentally drove away without one of the twins and she won’t shut up about it, and Irfan Mammoo is barreling through the speed bumps—which is met with nine cries of dismay—so that the ice cream doesn’t melt. 

We march into the house, talking extremely loud to make sure we wake everyone up to eat falooda with us. Everyone sets on a task—younger cousins wake everyone up, middle cousins get spoons and bowls, and oldest cousins lay out the ingredients outside so that Shaz Khala, Mama, and Farah Mami can serve it to everyone. 

As we all sit in anticipation, I watch Farah Mami pour the layers. Jello and condensed milk layer first—creating a bright red, crimson color at the bottom of the glass. The bottom layer is then topped with the shiny, white vermicelli noodles. And then the best part—a very large scoop of vanilla ice cream is added—which is then topped with rose syrup, basil seeds, and chia seeds. 

We all pile onto the charpai, in the dead of night, eating our falooda together. Everyone’s pushing and lightly complaining about how cramped it is as they delve into their own side conversations. The freezing cold glass in my hand is offset by how warm the atmosphere feels. I stare at all the layers of my falooda as they start to mix together. The ice cream is quickly melting in the heat of the summer, the light pink color of the rose syrup mixing with the white of  the vermicelli and diminishing the red color of the jello. A stray chia seed has made it to the complete bottom layer, as the rest begin to mix through the glass. 

Falooda is only good with all the layers. It’s an atrocity to leave any of them out—they all mix together perfectly. I look around the room and mentally assign everyone a layer. Hana, Sadia, and Aleena are like the jello and condensed milk. Sadia and Aleena have been spinning in circles with Hana for the past thirty minutes, occasionally tumbling into the grass. They’re slippery, like the mixture of jello and condensed milk. Ayaan, Hasan, and Shaz Khala are the vermicelli noodles. The noodles are the best part in my opinion, so it’s only fair that my secret favorites get to be the noodles. Irfan Mammoo is the star of the show—vanilla ice cream. The showiest part of the dessert and what usually draws people towards eating it. I like to think he’s the same way, an unrelenting force of energy everyone can’t help but love. Farah Mami and Awan Mammoo are the toppings—chia seeds, basil seeds, and rose syrup. They are the perfect addition that makes the entire drink feel whole. 

I rack my brain, trying to assign a layer to my siblings and my mom, coming up short. I already used all the layers. At this moment, I realize the four of us stick out like a sore thumb. We don’t have a layer and we don’t fit with the rest. 

The nagging feeling in the back of my brain casts a cloud over my thoughts. They’re the family and we’re the guests. The slight inside jokes they’ve had for years now go over our heads. The teasing jokes about being American are never ending.

We’re different—it feels like a constant reminder that we aren’t supposed to be here. 

I look over at Aisha, Isa, and my mom and they have smiles glued to their faces and commit this feeling, this night, this moment to memory. This doesn’t come often for the four of us.