What is it like to live in Pakistan?

As the saying goes, when you enter a country, inquire about its prohibitions; when you enter a village, follow its customs. Having lived in Pakistan for over seven years, I've unconsciously picked up many Pakistani habits without even trying.

Dressing in Colourful Clothes

Modern Chinese tend to prefer minimalism—dressing simply and elegantly, with the unspoken rule that "the colours on your body should never exceed three." Because of this, if someone were to wear bright pink paired with vivid green, they would surely be mocked as looking like a rustic quilt straight out of Northeast China. Pakistanis, however, are anything but stingy with colour. A red top with green trousers, or a yellow top with green trousers—they accept it all without hesitation.

Under such an aesthetic, choosing clothes in Pakistan was genuinely difficult for me at first, especially during the long summer. The light-coloured, minimalist clothes made of pure cotton lawn are so thin and sheer that you have to wear an extra camisole underneath. In Lahore, where even an extra thread feels unbearably hot, this was far from a wise choice. Left with no alternative, I started picking out vividly coloured clothes—thin yet opaque. And so, my own wardrobe gradually bloomed with life as well.

Eating Pakistani Food with Your Hands

For us Chinese, unless it's something tricky to pick up with chopsticks, like steamed buns or fruit, eating with your hands at the dining table is seen as a sign of poor upbringing. Ever since I was a child, I knew not to take food directly from a bowl with my hands. If I couldn't resist and grabbed something, the back of my hand would surely "eat a pair of chopsticks" (get smacked by my mother). This was so ingrained that even as an adult, the thought of eating with my hands makes me psychologically uncomfortable.

But in Pakistan, you simply have to use your hands. The Pakistani staples are chapati or naan. They hold the chapati in their left hand, tear off a small piece with the right, wrap it around some curry or meat, and pop it straight into the mouth without spilling a drop. When I first arrived in Pakistan, I had no clue how to eat a meal using only my hands and bread. Curry was manageable—I'd just dip the bread and put it in my mouth. Though it was rather bland that way, I could still get it down. Or like Pakistani children, I would tear the bread into small pieces, soak them in the curry, then scoop them out with chopsticks or a spoon, much like eating yangrou paomo (bread soaked in lamb soup). But the bread soaks and disintegrates quickly; if I tore too much, the leftovers turned mushy and unappetising. Compared to curry, eating meat or drier dishes like karahi was more challenging—I'd end up finishing all the bread first, then eating the meat, or I'd place the bread in my mouth, half-open it, and pop a piece of meat inside. Pakistani bread truly must be eaten together with the meat to taste right.

For a long time, I was the only one in the family sitting there with a bowl and chopsticks. Later, after I had learned to eat Pakistani food with my hands, I went to a Pakistani restaurant one evening and noticed two Chinese compatriots next to me using chopsticks to pick up naan and meat together—an incredibly impressive feat. I couldn't help smiling to myself as I remembered how I'd never managed to pick up bread and meat together with chopsticks. When Zaka was home, he would feed me using small pieces of bread wrapped around meat and curry. Gradually, he taught me how to pick up the bread with three fingers and wrap it around meat or vegetables, but I could never quite bring myself to fully embrace the habit of eating with my hands.

What finally made me eat entirely with my hands was a visit to Zaka's uncle's house. His uncle had lived in Karachi for over a decade and was an expert at cooking fish. That day he made a lot of fish and bought bread from outside. As we started eating, I realised there were no spoons. Being a guest, I couldn't be fussy or ask the host for this or that, so I just steeled myself and dug in. Pakistanis use very little water when cooking fish—similar to our Chinese red-braised fish, with only a small amount of thick, intensely flavourful gravy. By the end of that meal, I was finally able to eat Pakistani food using four fingers. Compared to the Pakistanis' three-finger technique, I still had a way to go—when the curry was thin, I'd still end up with it dripping all over my hand, so I still prefer my "soaked bread" method. Oh, and please don't tell my mum I eat with my hands!

Using Water After the Toilet

When I first learned that Zaka washed his bottom with his hand, I absolutely refused to let his left hand touch me. Later he told me he washed it thoroughly and even demonstrated how he scrubbed it repeatedly with soap, but I was still squeamish at heart. After coming to Pakistan, I found that local homes all have a small water tap in the bathroom called a Muslim Shower. There is no toilet paper, let alone a bin for used paper. Sometimes when I rushed to the toilet without bringing paper, or was afraid to throw paper into someone else's toilet, I was forced to use that little tap. At first, I couldn't get the hang of it—water splashed everywhere, and I'd have to change my clothes after using the toilet. After many attempts, I became quite adept at it. No more need to bring paper, and no more changing clothes afterwards. I got so used to it that on several occasions when I returned to my hometown in China, I'd finish in the toilet only to realise I hadn't brought any paper with me.

As for Zaka's bottom-washing left hand—after three years of washing our child's bottom and many years of living with him, I can now hold his left hand as comfortably as I hold my own right hand.

Cooking Only One Dish per Meal

Pakistan is not as vast and richly endowed as China, and Pakistanis are not as skilled as the Chinese at using a wide variety of ingredients. Even a clever housewife cannot cook without rice. I racked my brains cooking: with potatoes, I made shredded potatoes, potato slices, and mashed potatoes—each once. Then sour, spicy, and sour-spicy versions—once each as well—and then I was at my wit's end. Neither Zaka nor I like scrambled eggs with tomatoes. As for eggplant, when I was little and my family was poor, during eggplant season—the rainy season—eggplants grew wildly. We ate eggplant meal after meal, month after month, so now the very sight of eggplant makes me flinch; I've been thoroughly scared off. Zaka told me he has disliked eggplant since he was a child. And cabbage: I stir-fried hand-torn cabbage a few times until one day it sat untouched on the table—neither Zaka nor I wanted it. I grew sick of it, with its strong stink-bug smell. What remains of Pakistani vegetables can be counted on one hand, and Chinese people are more accustomed to eating plenty of vegetables—don't forget, I'm Chinese too. So, in the end, I simply started making just one dish per meal. This was a good thing—it saved me from lying awake at night worrying about what to cook the next day. Fortunately, Zaka is Pakistani and used to having only one dish per meal, so there's no pressure at all. Occasionally, when the dish was too bland, Zaka didn't fancy it much, but thankfully he never complained. Sometimes I couldn't even come up with one dish, so Zaka would cook Pakistani food, calling his mum while cooking and asking for guidance. After a few such calls, he got the hang of it himself. Now, whenever I crave Pakistani food, I'll even ask him to make some.

I remember once going for a job interview at a Chinese company and meeting a chef there. He told me being a chef in Pakistan is incredibly tough—not because of the low pay or the hot weather, but because colleagues complain that his dishes are too repetitive and they're fed up. But he said when he goes to the market, there's really nothing to buy—the options can be counted on your fingers. At that moment, we instantly felt like kindred spirits.

Drinking Tea with Added Sugar

Once I entertained Zaka's friend and brewed some Longjing tea. When it was ready, he asked me for sugar. I handed it to him, and he actually tipped the sugar straight into the tea. My face turned green—what a waste of something precious, like burning a zither to cook a crane. But you can't really blame them. Pakistanis originally had no custom of drinking tea. After the British colonised Hindustan, they brought Chinese tea culture with them. At that time, only the upper class could afford tea, as it was highly precious. Later, the British brought tea plants and labourers from China to India to cultivate tea. The people of Hindustan then adopted this elegant custom of tea drinking, but they couldn't adapt to the bitterness of plain tea. Accustomed to milk and sugar, they added sugar and milk to tea, creating milk tea, which gradually swept across Hindustan.

At first, I was thoroughly unaccustomed to drinking this sweet tea. But every time I visited someone's home, the host would serve milk tea. Brought up not to be picky about what a host offers, I forced myself to drink it. Over time, I grew used to it. Come winter, I'll even make myself a steaming cup of milk tea to warm up.

Wearing Slippers All Year Round

Pakistanis have an amazing love for wearing slippers, regardless of the occasion or profession—at weddings, in the office, driving a rickshaw, even workers climbing scaffolding at construction sites all wear slippers. And regardless of the season—female colleagues at the company come to work in slippers even in winter. I arrived in Pakistan at the end of April, just as the heat was setting in. The shoes I had brought with me were completely unwearable—it was far too hot. I had to go out and buy two pairs of slippers, and once I put them on, I couldn't take them off. I wore them for six full months, until the weather turned cool in October, when I finally put on socks.