People think that being a refugee is a temporary phase of their life, but it isn’t true. My uncle is in his 80s now and fondly remembers his time in Rawalpindi, his home. His fondest memory of the house was laying on the Chesterfield sofas they had. He got one made just like the one he used to have so he could sit on the same sofas he’d had as a teenager 70 odd years ago. He has this longing for Rawalpindi which I feel is poignant and jading at the same time. More than 7 decades have passed and he still wants to be home in Rawalpindi, for him that is his real home and it’s a beautiful and heart-breaking thing.