I often thought of her mother’s statement when I was contemplating a career move that necessitated living on my own in a new city a few years ago. My own mother was just as encouraging, so I relocated to Islamabad, a little nervous but mostly excited about the prospect of living on my own.

Once upon a time, when I was a single woman in my 20s, a friend, in her 30s, decided to set up house on her own. In those times it seemed odd to me that with her parents in the same city, she was moving out all on her own. But her mother, after the initial shock and despair (that had much to do with a fear that she had perhaps driven her daughter away although that was not the case at all), finally arrived at the conclusion only a loving mother is capable of.

“Just because my daughter is not married doesn’t mean she can’t have a home of her own,” said the friend’s mother, a statement that can only be expected from the most remarkable of all womankind -- a mother. So this friend and her friend rented a place of their own and moved bag and baggage, living happily thereafter. Though she visited her parents almost daily, she had relocated to a space she could call her own.

I often thought of her mother’s statement — and her supportiveness — when I was contemplating a career move that necessitated living on my own in a new city a few years ago. My own mother was just as encouraging, so I relocated to Islamabad, a little nervous but mostly excited about the prospect of living on my own.

The first few days of independent living were quite a scorcher, literally. Having moved to Islamabad in the winter of 2003, my new best friend was the gas heater. Before I get to the point, I must put the incident I am about to describe, in context. Having many friends and relatives in a city where you have just moved can be a mixed blessing.

On the upside, there’s no question of loneliness. But the downside is that in my desire to visit — and please — everyone who had graciously offered to put me up (and put up with me) till I found a permanent abode, I spent every night of my first week in Islamabad under a different roof. Before you start jumping to conclusions, let me clarify that it wasn’t quite as naughty as it sounds (sigh ...), but it’s the truth.

My faithful companion, the overnighter, and I embarked on a roving tour of the twin cities (yes, I was even in Pindi which to a Karachiite is akin to a trip from, say, Defence to PECHS but Islamabad residents regard it as a mission to Mars!), visiting friends, relatives and assorted aunts.

Since I was not mobile, it was not often that I had a chance to return to the place where I had permanently positioned my luggage to replenish clothing supplies. Hence, undies were less than plentiful. One particularly cold morning, after a hot bath under a shower that was like the Niagara Falls if it weren’t for the temperature of the water, I managed to drop my undergarments in the puddle that had formed on the floor of the bathroom thanks to a flimsy shower curtain.

That being the only undergarment I had, the only choice was to somehow dry it. Nope, couldn’t iron it. The elastic would stretch. Ah, the heater! So with a quick ‘thank God for winter’, I proceeded to the heater and began waving the item over the gusts of warm air radiating from the ducts. Pressed for time and wanting in patience, I decided that it would be quicker and less labour-intensive if I put it directly on the heater. As I did so, I could see the steam rising from it. Reassured that the soft sizzling and rising steam is exactly what happens when a hot iron comes into contact with damp cloth, and drawing the conclusion that it must therefore be drying, I set about packing for my next ‘trip’ though keeping a watchful eye on the ‘dryer’.

No points for guessing what happened to the item, although Karachiites like me will not be blamed entirely for their lack of knowledge of the capabilities of a heater. I had no choice but to don the singed garment -- which closely resembled a tiger print, by the way, with claws et al -- and for the rest of the day, winced every time the stiff edges of the burnt patches pinched and scraped me. Ouch!

But to get back to the experience of independent living, even though mine got off to a smoky, scratchy start, it remains one of the most treasured experiences of my SWOT life! And even though I’m back in my parents’ home, not worrying about cooking the next meal, paying the phone bill, defrosting the freezer, or buying a heater for the looming winter, I did all this and more with delight and a sense of wonder at how wonderful it all felt.