This is a heartfelt note from a person whose heart has been haunted by nostalgia as she navigates a life where building connections has become more challenging than ever. Have you ever wondered how our fathers manage to make friends with everyone they encounter, whether it’s the rickshaw driver they met five minutes ago or the man waiting in line at NADRA? It has always baffled me how flawless it all seemed. It was as if they had mastered the art of connection in a world that avoids contact with other humans as if it were a death sentence.
I remember how my father befriended two strangers as I was in the examination hall for my 10th board Urdu exam, battling that unforgiving mazmoon for approximately two hours. It was an odd yet endearing experience. He, like many fathers, didn’t wait for a sign from the seven heavens to know when it was the right moment. He just did. Just a few minutes of talk was enough. I wish I had that. I wish I could talk to people without fear of judgement and view others not as strange species but as stories waiting to be unfolded.
I realised that this ability is deeply rooted in the exposure people have had since childhood. This exposure primarily consisted of the local kiryana ki dukaan. It was not just a place to buy eggs, bread or chips — it was a place that became a part of their home.
It’s a place where you are known by your name, where credit is given based on trust, not card limits, and where a “bas kal de dunga” or a “chacha, khaatay main daal daina” is enough to settle the day’s debt.
My kiryana wala doesn’t need a coupon or discount codes; he knows my family and my favourite biscuits. Even a one-minute conversation is enough to warm you like a hug from a long-lost friend. He is practically family and knows us like the back of his hand. Try getting such an experience from the supermarket, whose size defies its connectivity — whose aisles stretch endlessly, but conversations never begin; where all necessities are available, yet you feel detached from it all.
Undeniably, supermarkets are much more efficient with products from a variety of brands, with pristine packaging and digital price tags demonstrating their vibrant presence in our consumerist world, reminding us that more is less. Yet silently, something more valuable is lost: the connection. It has forged a system in which no conversation is required. Just a transaction with a cashier who changes every other week.
It seems that our modern world has defined a contactless approach as the pinnacle of progress. Unlike the kiryana store, you’ll meet thousands of people in a supermarket, yet you remain isolated as people pass by you, unable to see you. Perhaps that is how we have become…far too obsessed with aesthetics and too detached to truly be alive.
The kiryana shop is different. It’s personal. It makes you feel included even when you move away from your hometown or grow up. It attaches itself to the same streets we walk every day and shares the same festivals we celebrate. It serves as a rebellion against a world that is often too big, too loud, and too fast for us to comprehend; it is something so simple yet part of our everyday lives and fond memories.
In a time where social media has amplified isolation — infecting us with the idea that we must be a certain way, speak a certain way and be “aesthetic” enough to be respected and befriend someone — my kiryana store serves as a reminder that I am enough simply as I am — imperfect, messy and eternally confused.
So, yes, the Kiryana store might not have fancy packaging, brands, or air conditioners. But the supermarkets can never replace what it has given us: a sense of belonging. It has upheld trust and a sense of community among the people. Its beauty, though perishing, shall remain eternal, for it has taught us and especially our fathers the true meaning of connection.