How a mold outbreak in Pakistan taught me that love, care, and even carpentry can now travel through a screen.
In this new life, staying in touch is a digital affair. The warm, chaotic hugs from aunts, the spontaneous cups of tea with friends, the comforting presence of family in the next room, all of it has been distilled into pixels and data packets. Our connections now live on screens, scheduled around time zones and Wi-Fi strength. It’s a ritual we’ve all come to know, a bittersweet exchange of seeing loved ones’ faces while feeling the physical distance in your bones.
But recently, this digital tether took on a whole new, unexpected dimension. It became a lifeline not just to people, but to the home we left behind.
Back in Pakistan, the monsoon rains were relentless. Torrential spells lashed against the windows of our farmhouse, the same windows I used to watch the weather from, had been closed for two months. My incredible sister-in-law, my eyes and hands on the ground, took it upon herself to check on the place for us.
The voice note came through, her voice etched with concern. Saba, she said, you need to see this. And there were chunks of photos and videos that followed.
The screen showed me a room I hadn’t stepped in for months. And there it was: a silent, creeping invader. Mold. The dampness had seeped in, and a stubborn, fuzzy black and green patch had claimed a wall, a closet, and sadly, the clothes and belongings within. My heart sank. These weren’t just things; they were memories, pieces of a life paused. Seeing them ruined from 7,000 kilometers away was a uniquely helpless feeling.
But then, the most remarkable thing happened. The digital ritual evolved from a simple check-in into a long-distance crisis management session.
My sister-in-law became my on-the-ground chief of operations. Our trusted staff, who had been with us for years, gathered around the phone, their familiar faces filled with a shared determination to fix this. And there I was, in my Lisbon apartment, holding my phone like a command center.
Can you show me the corner of the closet again? I’d say, and they would pan the camera. Those papers in the box..are they salvageable? Please check. I was walking them through the triage process across continents and oceans, deciding what to keep, what to try and save, and what to finally, heartbreakingly, let go of. Those jackets can be sent to drycleaner, the beddings can be washed, I instructed, my voice trying to mask the ache. But those woolens, I think we have to discard them.
Next came the restoration. I found myself on a video call with the painter and our carpenter, a man I’ve trusted for decades. My staff sent him the videos and photos and he coordinated with them on how to prepare the mixture to clean and add a protective layer on all the wooden objects. The painter took control of scraping away the mold n deep clean the walls, roof and floor. The repainting had to wait for the rainy spells to end.
Can you sand this down and repaint it?”I asked my carpenter, squinting at the screen. Jee, Baji, he nodded. Please don’t worry. It will be taken care of. Okay, I said, taking a deep breath, making a decision from my sofa in Portugal that would alter a room in Pakistan.
It was surreal. Coordinating the revival of my home through a five-inch screen. It was a stark reminder of the two worlds we now straddle. Physically present in one, emotionally and digitally responsible for the other.
This is the modern reality of a global life. The video call is no longer just for sharing birthday wishes or a grandchild’s first steps. It’s for managing mold outbreaks. It’s for directing the salvation of a beloved sari or a kurta. It’s for approving the replacement of a door panel if required.
It’s a fragile, incredible thread that connects us, allowing us to care for the people and places we love, even from the other side of the world. It’s a ritual that requires trust, patience, and a strong internet connection. And in that strange, digital room where we all met: me in Lisbon, my sister-in-law, our staff, and our carpenter in different cities of Pakistan. I didn’t just see a problem being solved. I felt the unwavering strength of the bonds we left behind, still holding strong, pixel by pixel.
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