In a month’s time, one of my best friends will celebrate her 5^th anniversary of living independently. An unlikely celebration, but one that is a milestone if one is from a desi household; a rather rare achievement, if I may call it so, for a girl living in Al-Bakistan.

South Asian households are notorious for living in a structure that suffocates and infantilises kin for as long as possible. The motivation to leave behind the physical comfort of her parent’s house obviously came from the psychological discomfort with illogical cultural standards that become the bane of one’s existence.

Having utility bills paid without having to grind for it is a big comfort, and no one minds having a maid to clean up after you. Every single person who lives independently will tell you how easy they have it at their parents’ house where chores seem to get done magically, mostly without your knowledge. No arguments there.

At almost 23, when my friend, an expat from Saudi Arabia, decided to move out for the simple wish of being able to make trivial daily decisions about her life by herself, the expected Hiroshima-like outburst did not follow. She played it smart, making it look like a joke. A month later, she had weaseled her way into in a dingy annexe on Shami Road, Lahore. Her father had almost stopped talking to her, though.

Spoilt rotten at home, she had walked into a house that most of us friends thought was haunted. With little cash to spare, a grime-filled chipped floor was covered with a paper thin carpet from Saddar, the windows with secondhand chiks; the flush was almost always clogged, and the house would be engulfed in smoke every time she cooked because there was no exhaust.

A TV was the first thing she, a film student at that time, invested in. A water dispenser that doubled up as a fridge was next. For a long time, these and a mattress were pretty much the only things in the room.

The half a decade has been a run of follies and suicidal moments. The reality of living independently is not living the standard interpretation of mera jism, meri marzi. The society, supposedly pious and honourable, presents the biggest challenges.

There was the landlady who suggested that M have friends over only on Sundays. A landlord who in connivance with an agent tried to scam her out of extra security money, and another, who sent suggestive messages.

Running a house on your own is another challenge. The domestic staff will try to fool you more than they would a couple or a family, the neighbours will gossip, nobody cares if you don’t have work in the middle of a pandemic, the rent must be paid and you can’t ask your parents for cash. You will realise that having to wake up in the middle of the night to take your dog out is quite a pain. You will stare at a 5-litre water bottle for a good 10 minutes while gathering the energy to take it up the stairs and set it on the counter. It’s this, staying parched or drinking Lahore’s hot, vitamin-enriched tap water in July.

And just when M thought she had gotten a grip on life, she moved in with the housemates from hell.

A was someone who would mostly keep to herself but was under the impression that using other people’s things without asking was okay. The woman’s love for filth was another issue. When she left, it took a week for the pungent smell to leave the room occupied by her.

Later, M noticed that most of her crockery was missing, only to spot a glass dish on A’s Instagram story days later.

F was troubled by personal demons that had turned her into an exorcist’s dream project. Lord Voldemort would have been easier to live with.

There will be times when things seem to be going well and then the sweeper will be caught on camera molesting the cat.

And there will be moments with not-so-mundane issues. For example, the ISI may ring your bell to interview you about the gora friend who came to visit. They will get suspicious only because you are a single girl living without the family. Intrusive questions will follow. You will find out that the US Embassy actually doesn’t give a damn about its citizens as the gora’s face turns pale to almost blue and he asks you “if they are going to take him away?”

And yet, after all this, simple things such as not having to cover yourself with a curtain-length dupatta on stepping out of the room, setting the furniture the way you want and not how your mother wants it, and not being subject to constant criticism for doing things your way, makes it all worth the trouble.

M has done well for herself. She now lives with two other people and a very fluffy corgi-samoyed. She has a bed, a pair of matching side lamps and fancy bathroom fittings. The room is fully automated, thanks to Alexa.

She happily talks about how she can survive without anyone’s help. Most women move from their parents’ house to the in-laws’ place. Everybody tells you what to do. The ones who move out are almost exclusively the only ones who get the chance to say: “This is my house.” They do what they want. They can walk to Girja Chowk at 5am in the morning and eat a paratha with a security guard at the same table with no one to ask questions or try to stop them.

This is liberation.

The writer can be contacted at mariamzermina@gmail.com