For once I had absolutely nothing to do — no deadlines to meet, no TV recordings, no dictatorship and no democracy. A bald headed eagle flew over the lush green golf course and disappeared in the nearby marshy forest.

In the mornings I packed my obnoxiously disproportioned figure in a jogging suit and started walking lazily beside the thick forest from where strange animal sounds emerged along with the morning symphony of the birds. At times a couple of deer would suddenly appear in front of me, gaze at me with their beautiful eyes for a while and then headed back to the jungle.

The very first morning of this walk I was surprised to see a very aesthetically laid out flower and coloured plants bed at the end of the track which was not there last year. In the midst of this arrangement was a plaque bearing a smiling photograph of a very young and attractive girl. She had died in an accident about eight weeks back and her loved ones had erected this flower monument in her memory. What a way to remember the dear and departed.

Every morning I stood there for a while and prayed for her soul. I felt a strange affinity with her, the first rays of the sun illuminated her dust into dust smiling face wet with the morning dew.

I was once again in Orlando, Florida, visiting my daughter Anni, her husband Bilal and my first grandson Noffel whose second birthday was the occasion which attracted me towards this far away land of America. On one of these days of leisure and contentment, I received an unexpected call from Berlin. On line was a certain German lady Claudia Kramatschek who, after exchanging pleasantries, scolded me for being in Orlando instead of staying put in Lahore because she had a certain amount of difficulty in tracing me.

“Mr Tarar, I represent a German literary organization called Literatur-Werkstatt Berlin. It is our desire that you should participate in a literary event being held at the end of September to represent Pakistani fiction which reflects the Partition of India and Pakistan. Your novel Raakh has been shortlisted as a representative creation, certain portions of your novel will be translated into German for the benefit of the local intelligentsia. Needless to say, we will provide you with the return air fare and you will receive a certain amount of royalty for the translation of your work.”

The invitation was very prestigious because in the past Intizar Hussain and Quratulain Hyder were also invited in this forum and the best part was that it was also very lucrative and beneficial. But there were certain hurdles in the way, I did not possess a German visa which, as luck would have it, could be issued to Pakistanis in Islamabad only, my literary engagements in Canada could not be postponed and, above all, I was too lethargic to radically change my future schedule.

But the indomitable Claudia K surmounted all these hurdles and in the next 20 days she bombarded me with dozens of e-mails and telephonic instructions. So by the time I landed in Toronto, I had two pieces of luggage instead of one. The extra bag was stuffed with Claudia K’s e-mails, instructions, air tickets, health insurance, hotel bookings, etc. The German foreign office had intervened perhaps and the German Consul General in Toronto was requested to issue me the desired visa which was promptly, but miserly, issued as it was valid for only five days. I could be arrested by the German police if somehow or the other I failed to leave the country in time. delayed flight could lead me to a dungeon.

When I arrived in Berlin via Frankfurt, utterly exhausted and hungry after an 11-hour flight from Calgary, Canada, there was no one to receive me at the airport. After America and Canada, I was feeling slightly uncomfortable in Germany as most of the males and females were dressed very formally, a stark contrast to the casuals I was used to. I felt as if everyone was going to a funeral because they were dressed so neatly.

After about an hour’s wait, I noticed that a lean and sparsely bearded German was hovering around me, I let him hover for a while and then asked, “Can I do anything for you?”

He adjusted his rimless glasses, brought out a small diary from his pocket, consulted it and said, “Are you Soraya Khan?”

“I hope not, at this age I cannot afford to be a woman by the name of Soraya.”

“Well then,” he beamed, “You are Mr Nida Fazali, the poet from India.”

I don’t mind being mistaken for a woman but a poet, now that was hitting me below the belt, “No, Do I look like a poet?”

He consulted his diary again and then said sheepishly, “You could only be Mr Tarar from Pakistan. The Literatur-Werkstatt people gave me the names of three people whom I had to receive from the airport so how would I know who is who?”

This bearded young man Lium was as student of arts in the local university and was temporarily attached with the literary organization mentioned above. While he was placing my suitcase in the car he noticed a piece of paper attached to the windscreen and gave a howl, “Oh shit, Oh f——! Oh I have been given a ticket. Oh shit!”

I tried to console him but to no avail he kept on muttering his ‘Oh shit’ and ‘Oh f—-’ laments. After a while he recovered and again leafed through his diary “Oh, Soraya Khan is due on next flight so we will wait a while.”

Finally Soraya Khan arrived from New York and then finally we headed for the hotel. Soraya Khan is somehow of Pakistani origin but was born in Vienna, lives in New York and, to further complicate the matters, is a Dutch national, author of a well received novel Noor with a backdrop of East Pakistan debacle.

Berlin and I were not exactly strangers to each other. After attending the World Youth festival in Moscow as a British delegate in I958, we stayed in East Berlin as the guests of the then communist regime. Parts of the city were still in ruins devastated by the allied bombings during World War II where war-worn Germans still wandered like lost ghosts.

Then in 1969, Mike Miller an American of dubious credentials, along with three Australian girls whom he called ducks due to their plain looks, coaxed me in to accompanying him to Berlin in his sports car. All of us stayed in the Hilton Hotel in a single room with a little bit of doubtful manoeuvring by Mike. The Berlin wall had not divided the city as yet.

On our way to the hotel, Lium informed me that Iftikhar Arif was also in town and the Pakistani Ambassador had invited both of us the same afternoon for a little chit chat. Our ambassador in Germany H.E. Asif Azdi, turned out to be very amicable gentleman and matters of “mutual interest” came under discussion. He had on his table the latest clippings from the Berlin Press which gave details of the event in which we were to participate.

As the main theme of the event was the Partition of India as depicted in the literature of both countries, he was slightly apprehensive of the fact that the papers were slightly biased as to the creation of Pakistan and this event may reflect the same sentiments. However, our discussion was not very “fruitful” — the long table in front of us remained deserted. There was no sign of a lavish diplomatic lunch. The only reason which my starving mind came up with was that the good Ambassador has been serving in this country for last five years showing his diplomatic competency, so his entertainment funds have been exhausted in the meantime.

By the way, I forgot to mention Mr Ubaid Niazamani, the first secretary at the mission, who is so pleasant that his long beard also smiles. He is a close friend of my diplomat son, Saljuk and we had performed Haj together so I whispered to him “Ubaid, aren’t you going to offer us a cup of tea at least.”

His beard stopped smiling “Uncle, its Ramazan, aren’t you fasting?”

How could I tell him that I was coming straight from Alaska and was completely unaware of the advent of Ramazan.