Not The Whole Truth: My Life and Times Just before I left, there was the disturbing news of the hijacking of a PIA plane. It was hijacked by youths who were diehard supporters of Bhutto and, to make matters worse, the leader of this gang of three was Tipu—the very same far-off relative (nephew as far as I could understand) of my mother whom I had met in Karachi earlier! When I heard Tipu’s name, I was worried though I had met him only briefly. Anyway, I was taken to the airport by the British Council and the plane stopped for refuelling in Damascus.
On a winter day I landed at Islamabad airport and went home. There I almost broke down with relief. It was so good to be home.
I gave Ahmad a tape recorder and all the others their gifts since, as usual, even in this crisis, I had bought gifts for everyone. Then I went to bed smelling the familiar smell of mother’s cooking, the familiar sounds of my country and knowing that I was not lonely. My heart stopped sinking and, though I still slept badly, I did not suffer as I had in England.
I returned to normal but my experience had made me apprehensive of my mental health. I now felt that I needed medical help. As Ahmad was a medical student, I asked him about his lecturers in psychiatry.
He told me about his own professor who was the head of psychiatry in a hospital and an associate professor in that subject in the Rawalpindi Medical College. I went to him and told him that I suffered from anxiety and panic attacks. He asked me.