But I did have friends.
I got on the phone. “Eid celebration is at my apartment,” I invited them all. “Come dressed in your finest of finest.” I got that squared away—we wouldn’t be alone.
Daddy explains that it teaches us to make sacrifices, to give up what we love, and to share with the poor and others what is dear to us.
The butcher ties the hind legs of the poor dead lamb and hangs it on a tree limb in the backyard, allowing the blood to drain out, the dirt below absorbing it. He places himself on a stool, skillfully stripping off the skin into one whole furry piece, which he will keep for himself and sell at a handsome price. He places large portions of the pink meat on the gray stone slab, slicing, chopping. The bones and fat are put in a container for the stray cats and dogs. He makes three portions of the lamb meat: one for charity; one for family, friends, and neighbors; and one for us, the household. Aurangzeb pays him, and then he is off to the next house, for the next slaughter.
Early that morning, before the butcher arrives, Daddy and my brother Salman, in freshly laundered and starched white shalwar kameez, head out to the community Eid Gah for Eid prayers. Mummy gets the house ready, supervising the help. A hand-embroidered beige tablecloth is draped over the dining table; Razia has cooked up a feast; Aurangzeb has arranged the table with sheer khorma, carefully layering the vermicelli dish with warq—the shiny paper-thin layer of pounded silver—and ribbon sandwiches before accompanying Daddy for prayers. By the time Daddy and all the male members return, we are all dressed up in our new, brightly colored shalwar kameez, ready to receive Daddy.
“Eid Mubarak,” Daddy calls out, wishing everyone a blessed Eid.
“Khair mubarak, jeetey raho.” Daadee Amma says a prayer for their long life, opens her arms, and gives Daddy and Salman a hug.
Now, what do we do about Eid prayers? Can’t have Eid without prayers. There was no mosque in New York. Khalid solved that one. Apparently, there was a Muslim organization in New York that had organized Eid prayers at the Americana Hotel (now Sheraton, Times Square) in Manhattan.
“We will leave at 7:00 a.m. for Eid prayers,” Khalid announced.
“We? But women don’t go to the mosque!” I didn’t catch myself in time.
“We are not going to a mosque.”
“But women don’t go to Eid prayers.”
“Here they do.”
“Oh!”
I suppose there is nothing wrong with that. I mean—it’s prayer. Actually, I wonder what that would be like—women at Eid prayers. Wait till I tell Mummy and Daddy.
“Eid Mubarak,” we all squeal and run down to Daddy’s arms. Daddy opens his wallet and hands us our eidee—crisp rupee bills for each of us. We gleefully count the money and rush off to stash it away. We dig into the sheer khorma, fishing for the coconut shavings, sliced almonds, and oversized raisins, and slurp away as we try to suck in the last strand of vermicelli, inhaling the aroma of rosewater.
It was a cold January morning, and I got all dressed up for Eid in my pale blue gharara with silver embroidery, a trailing dupatta with silver trimmings, and silver shoes, and got onto the subway. It was Eid, and no one was going to talk me out of getting dressed up. I did yield to Khalid’s caution against wearing jewelry when riding the subways—this was 1972, and New York did not rate well on crime statistics. Khalid dressed “regular”—a suit. The trip to Manhattan took some doing. We had moved to a one-bedroom garden apartment in Glen Oaks at the farthest end of Queens, bordering Long Island. Grand Central Parkway was bumper-to-bumper on this weekday morning; we parked at the subway station somewhere in Queens where our Pakistani friends were waiting for us, took the train into Manhattan, and walked through the then-seedy Times Square, cluttered with peep-show posters, to the ballroom of the Americana Hotel. Not many subway riders took notice of my flowing, glittering outfit, and when they did gawk, I took it as a compliment. Inside, Khalid escorted me to the “ladies’ section” in the back before making his way to the men’s section up front. There were fewer than twenty ladies. Why are ladies in the back? Why am I not with Khalid? I don’t remember the details of my introduction to congregational prayer; I do remember that the ballroom was huge, with crystal chandeliers and gold and red carpeting, and was full with people. Khalid later told me that people had come from all over the Tri-State area. I lingered alone in that cluster of ladies with unfamiliar faces. Khalid’s friends were either single or had married American women who had embraced Islam but had chosen not to join the prayers. I was too shy to start a conversation, a trait that has endured. My glittering attire finally got attention, and a few Pakistani-looking women called out, asking if I was a newlywed. Smiling demurely, I said yes. I was hoping the question would be a prelude to an introduction, a dialogue, and we would part having exchanged phone numbers.
“That’s nice.”
And they moved on.
The tea trolley is wheeled out and stocked for the guests—tea set on the top tray, quarter plates and forks on the lower tray, and samosas, kebabs, and jelebi on the lowest tray. When guests arrive, hugging us with greetings of “Eid Mubarak,” Razia pours steaming tea in the preheated teapot and hot milk in the milk pot, and covers the teapot with the tea cozy. Aurangzeb wheels the trolley in the drawing room, placing it in front of Mummy, who with oh such grace pours out the tea for the guests after it has steeped for ten minutes, and the tea cozy, decked in round mirrors sparkling as they catch the sunrays filtering in the drawing room, has been gently removed. “How much sugar?” she asks, as I hand out the quarter plates and embroidered napkins, balancing the forks, and Neena serves the crisp samosas. The elder ladies are served first, then the elder men, followed by the younger ladies, and then younger men, and finally, the children. We, the hosts, are the last to help ourselves.
Aurangzeb is busy in the backyard, apportioning the meat into plastic bags, and will soon start making the rounds in the neighborhood, distributing meat. Razia watches the gate, handing out meat packs to the poor who have lined up. She has already stocked the household’s one-third share of the meat and has quickened her pace to start cooking it. The kitchen smells of a butcher shop. Freezer space will be taken up by meat we receive from family, friends, and neighbors. Razia is busy socializing, exchanging greetings with the neighborhood help who stop by to deliver meat and trading neighborhood happenings. We inevitably end up with two-thirds of the lamb meat—neighbor’s share replaced by our share of the neighbor’s.
As soon as there is a lull in between visitors, we pile up in the car and go visiting. The elders in the family are the first stop; we leave with our purses fattened with eidees. By the end of the day, the parents have emptied their wallets, and we all sit gleefully, counting our loot.
The high tea brought the flavor of Eid into my home—a little. Khalid’s friends with their American wives and girlfriends brought food, fun, and laughter. But I missed the sounds and the familiarity of communion of shared background. The men in the living room chatted in Urdu and Punjabi, and the girls and I cleared the kitchen, in English. This day, I didn’t want to explain my customs—I wanted to share them. I didn’t want to make these friends understand; I wanted it to be understood. And I certainly didn’t want to deal with looks of horror over the sacrificial lamb. I didn’t want to repeat myself to make my British-Pakistani-English accent understood to the American ear. I longed for the freedom to speak Urdu, to have someone talk back to me in the language of Eid. Sara Lee cake didn’t have the sweet-and-sticky texture of swirling jelebi; hash browns didn’t have the spicy sting of samosas; sheer khorma made with spaghetti lacked the fine, slurpy feel of vermicelli; vanilla flavoring couldn’t replace the refreshing flowery fragrance of rosewater; and Eid Mubarak with an American accent felt foreign. Ah, what I would have given for a layer of warq on the sheer khorma for that touch of sparkle. I yearned to share the nostalgia of knowing what we were missing.
I would write to Mummy and Daddy about the wonderful Eid party I had and Eid pra
yers. I would enclose photographs of us partying in the living room. And I would leave out the rest.
8.
Pakistani Pregnancy, American Delivery
A Baptism of Sorts, Plus a Circumcision
The next time I found religion was when I learned I was pregnant.
Glen Oaks, New York. 1972
How I wished my mother were with me! I couldn’t stomach food; morning sickness was nauseating; and, finally, I was beginning to feel lonely. Khalid was on ICU rotation and on night call every third night, which meant he would put in a full day of work, work all evening, all night, all day again, and come home after thirty-six hours of being on his feet with critically ill patients. All this time I was home alone, filling space with my thoughts and thrilling anticipation of a baby, and sick to my stomach. I had Pakistani friends, but they were in the same situation—pregnant, throwing up, waiting at home for their husbands to return after a night call. We would chat daily on the phone, but that was the extent of it. It was too cold to take a walk, and I was afraid to slip on the ice and miscarry. I could picture myself lying in the snow—alone. I stayed closeted in that one-bedroom apartment, our wedding photos on every wall, writing letters, waiting for the mailman, reading Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care, and watching Nixon and McGovern battle it out. I played the same two LPs of Mukesh and Lata’s love songs over and over again. I had a room with a view: bare trees, gray skies, rows of garden apartments with shades pulled down and no sign of existence. Occasionally a car would pass by and be gone. Winter was as noiseless as a snowflake falling. The only sounds I heard were the muffled thuds of footsteps of the lady above. I longed to see a face, hear a voice. Khalid would come home exhausted, immediately attend to me, chatting, heating the food to spare me the nauseating experience of the whiff of chilled curry that hit my nostrils each time I took the lid off the Tupperware, and just plain keeping me company and comforting me—it will pass, only one more month to go and you will be craving food; only a couple of weeks to go. I couldn’t comprehend what life would be like without vomiting trips to the bathroom. If only Mummy were here—she would see to it that I was taken care of, tell me what to eat, what to do.
I had spoken to my parents on the phone only once. I had to call the overseas operator and request a call; she had called me back the next day to give me a date and time—three weeks out; I had then written to my parents, advising them of the call date and time. The entire family had assembled at our house in Rawalpindi to join the call, including Khalid’s family who traveled from Multan (they did not have a phone). Daddy had engineered a speakerphone by wiring the phone into his music system. It was a three-minute call; and as soon as pleasantries were exchanged with the two-dozen people in the room, the call time ended. And it was expensive—expensive for a resident physician with an annual salary of $7,500.
I was too bashful to tell my parents about my pregnancy. What will I say? I can’t say, “I am going to have a baby”—that would be so forward. Someone other than me had to break the news, and Khalid, being a doctor, wrote to my parents.
No sooner is a couple in Pakistan married than the expectant elders exchange greetings in hushed tones. How are the newlyweds? Any good news? Not yet? Don’t worry, Insha’Allah it will happen soon. Ah, there is good news! Congratulations! May Allah grant them a son. And good news is celebrated quietly—only the elder ladies talk about it, referring to the mother-to-be as being in a “family way” or “expecting.” The phrase “having a baby” is too graphic to be considered appropriate, and the word “pregnant” is off-limits and reserved for doctors only. Mother informs father—behind closed doors—that their daughter or daughter-in-law is to be a mother.
One day I came home after spending a few days with my newlywed uncle and aunt. Mummy asked me how everyone was doing, and I told her that my aunt had been vomiting. The next moment Mummy was on the phone with my uncle, who confirmed the vomiting. Excited, Mummy called my grandmother: “Congratulations, your daughter-in-law is vomiting.”
The expectant mom remains silent. When elder aunts wish her well, she will blush and lower her gaze. Once she starts showing, she will drape a dupatta or shawl over her abdomen, concealing her growing pleasure, and could carry through full term without anyone noticing that she was pregnant.
Khalid never noticed his mother’s pregnancies. He was the oldest of ten siblings; eight made it to adulthood. One morning his mother asked him to stop by the missionary nurses on his way to college and tell them that she would need them today. That was code word for “I am in labor.” He came home that evening to a newborn baby.
Mothers and mothers-in-law fuss over the expectant mother to no end. In her final weeks, the expectant mother will move to her mother’s home for her delivery and stay there until six weeks after the baby’s birth. The mother attends to her diet, makes sure she rests and does her walks, indulges her moods, fulfills her cravings, and hovers over her day and night. Sometimes a masseuse will come to the house and massage her legs. Special prayers are said for an easy pregnancy and for the health of the child and, of course, for a boy.
I yearned for the comfort of that special prayer—without the boy part—although perhaps deep down I too wanted a boy. I never admitted that.
Mummy wrote back. As soon as she had read Khalid’s letter she was on the phone with Daddy, “My baby is going to have a baby,” and then with my mother-in-law, who said, “I was waiting for the good news”; then my uncles and aunts; then the friends, the neighbors…. The annunciation of the first grandchild in both families burst like a piñata of excitement and joy, tempered with worry for me being by myself. Mummy sent me those special prayers. Read the Qur’an every morning; recite the chapter of Mary, mother of Jesus, and pray for an easy childbirth; and recite the chapter of Joseph, and your baby will be beautiful.
I didn’t have a Qur’an. Bookstores didn’t carry it. Khalid asked around among some conservative religious Muslim doctors and was told of a store in Manhattan. We drove out, found parking space—oh, how I dreaded trying to park in Manhattan—and bought a copy of the Qur’an in Abdullah Yusuf Ali’s English translation. I purchased brown velvet material and stitched a book cover. Thus began my daily recitation of the chapters of Mary and Joseph. I resumed my daily prayers but only four of the required five. I found the daybreak prayer too early for me to give up my sleep. And I fell in love with my unborn baby, buoyant with his every kick.
My prayers were granted—all of them. On the morning of October 3, 1972, I woke up with mild contractions. I was two days past my due date and had had a breezy, blissful second and third trimester, consumed with longing for my baby’s arrival. Khalid called my obstetrician—I will call him Dr. Roberts—who said to bring her in right away. Dr. Roberts was a male obstetrician, and that was the other thing. In Pakistan, women had their babies delivered by female obstetricians, or “lady doctors” as they called them. With all the segregation of the sexes, exposing one’s genitalia to a male was unthinkable. When I first got pregnant, Khalid asked around and told me that his colleague had recommended this doctor.
“I can’t go to a male doctor!” I was horrified.
“There are no female obstetricians in New York.”
“How come?” If Pakistan, a third-world country, is loaded with female obstetricians, how is it that … ?
Khalid sat me down and gently counseled me, rationalizing the professionalism of a doctor-patient relationship. Having no choice, I went along. That both the doctors in this practice were old enough to be my father—older, actually—made it less awkward. After the first visit, I got over my hesitation. Dr. Roberts was a rounded figure with a balding head and a stern look who never smiled—and I was afraid of him. On one of my prenatal visits, when the nurse took my weight, I had put on six pounds. “We keep telling you ladies to watch your salt.” He had never told me that, but I was too meek to speak up. Of course, I stopped the salt, and on my next visit I was hoping I’d get to see his nice partner instead. No su
ch luck, but he did acknowledge that I had done well with the weight.
Long Island Jewish Hospital was barely a mile away. A lady in white greeted me and filled out some forms.
“Would you like to have the baby circumcised if it is a boy?”
“Yes. How old will he be when you circumcise him?” I asked.
“On the second day of his birth.”
Thank God it’s a Jewish hospital.
Khalid had briefed me earlier that Jews also circumcise their boys. Later I was to learn that all hospitals offer that service.
How fortunate that my baby boy—if it’s a boy—will get circumcised right away, and in a clean hospital setting.
When my brother was born, I remember Mummy pleading with the British doctor to please circumcise him while he was still in the hospital. He refused, saying it was too risky. My brother ended up getting circumcised at age five, the typical age for boys in Pakistan. I still recall how uncomfortable he was post-procedure. He had the procedure done in a hospital, but in most homes the barber would come to the house to perform it.
Dr. Roberts was waiting. “What took you so long? I thought you had the baby at home.”
Getting a scolding in labor.
He told me that he was going to put me to sleep.
“But I want a natural childbirth.”
“You should have taken classes.”
No one told me that. I suppose I should have told the doctor ahead of time, but in all fairness, the choice was not offered. I relented, he put me to sleep, and I woke up to see Khalid through blurred eyes in a blue gown.
“Baby is here—a boy.”
Can’t be. My labor has only just begun. Let me just sleep.
He caressed my shoulder. “Baby is here.”
Groggy, foggy, and uncomprehending.
But I had no labor, no pains, no pushing. I hadn’t heard the baby cry. It can’t be, just let me sleep.
Threading My Prayer Rug Page 9