I’ve spent ⅓ of my life outside of Pakistan.

At seven, I swapped Hyderabad for Milan, Italy. At nineteen, I traded Karachi for Kuala Lumpur, where I’m now two years into a life of weekend trips to Bukit Bintang and a love affair with teh ais — cold, milky tea that would make my chai-obsessed parents clutch their chest.

But, I’m still Pakistani.

The Pakistani diaspora, or better known as “Overseas Pakistanis”, is one of the largest in the world, with millions spread across the Middle East, Europe, North America, and beyond.

Living, breathing extensions of Pakistan.

In our kitchens, you’ll find the smell of shan masala packets mixing with whatever’s local. In our wardrobes, embroidered kurtis are seen hanging next to denim jackets. We celebrate Eid in city apartments far from home, and teach our favourite Urdu words (cuss words, oops) to people who don’t speak the language.

Wherever we go, we carry pieces of Pakistan with us, in the way we live, love, and connect.

Home to me is dizzying on the senses. I taste mangoes: golden, juicy, and best eaten with your hands. I hear the clinking of chai cups in family living rooms. I smell my mom’s cooking.

I think of lazy evenings at Dolmen Mall, laughing till my cheeks hurt at my friends’ houses in DHA and Gulshan Iqbal, and the simple joy of trying new overpriced cafés with people who know all my inside jokes.

Malaysia is familiar in some ways, especially with how spicy food is a way of life. Here, I dig into dragon fruit, hear the sounds of chit-chat during late-night outings to mamaks, and point out the intoxicating smells of fresh sambal at my favourite Ayam Gepuk restaurant.

But, I also cook nihari for friends. I wear bright kurtis and dupattas over jeans. My wardrobe is basically a love letter to my culture (and my mom, who designed half of it).

And, Urdu.

Urdu lives on in my conversations with other South Asian friends, in little fragments of our languages that are stitched together in laughter. From Sri Lanka, the Maldives, Bangladesh, and India, we cross paths, our worlds blending and borrowing from one another.

My favourite Urdu word is jaan — to call someone your jaan is to give them your heart. And my friends here? They have mine.

Living abroad means having one foot in each world. Sometimes I’m too Pakistani for Malaysia, sometimes too Malaysian (or too Western) for Pakistan.

I’ve adopted Malaysian traditions (hi, roaming around at Pasar Seni & kek batik), while keeping Pakistan alive in my kitchen, my wardrobe, and my heart.

I may be thousands of miles away, but in KL, I’m still carrying mangoes, nihari, and my jaan — and that’s enough to feel at home twice over.