They brought baby Saqib to me, wrapped up in a blue and pink–striped receiving blanket. I was propped up. The nurse handed me a baby. He opened his eyes for me, big dark eyes, a fine nose, baby pink skin with blotches of red on his forehead and eyelids, jet-black tuft of hair, soft and warm in my hands. I looked up.
“He is mine?” I asked.
She smiled. “He is all yours.”
I looked down at what I held. Small, light, real—a baby.
My baby! This is what I carried! Is this what I carried! My baby?
Upon a baby’s birth, a male elder in the family will bring the baby in the fold of Islam by reciting the adhan in the baby’s right ear. The call to prayer invokes the glory of God.
It was Father’s Hour. Khalid gently picked up Saqib, cradled him, lowered his head to bring it close, and recited the adhan in Saqib’s right ear. Saqib was baptized a Muslim.
I don’t believe I thanked God. He had answered my prayers. I had a painless delivery—slept through the entire labor—a beautiful, healthy baby; a doting husband by my side; was surrounded by friends; nurses hovered…. I was swept away by the wonder of it all and forgot all about God. And that is precisely what God says in the Qur’an, that you will reach out to Me when you are in need, but once you have what you want, you will no longer remember Me.
Three years later I went through the same prayer ritual when pregnant with my son Asim. His birth was not that easy, but he was a beautiful baby. The nurses kept telling me, “What a clean looking baby he is.” I wasn’t sure what to make of it until they brought him to me. A perfect, round face, not a blotch of red, same dark hair, small chiseled nose, fine lips, and bright dark eyes. In three years the world had shrunk—phone connectivity, ease of travel, affordability—and there was more traffic between Pakistan and the US. Uncle sent auntie to stay with me for four months. She chased Saqib when I was too slow on my feet; stayed home with Saqib when Khalid took me to the hospital; cooked when I fed Asim; and watched them when I napped. A Godsend. Did I thank God?
I could not keep up with my prayers after entering the realm of motherhood. It was not that I didn’t have the time; I couldn’t take my eyes off my children. Prayer required me to enter into a state of total focus where I am standing in the presence of God, silently reciting verses of the Qur’an in Arabic, bowing, prostrating, sitting, and remaining in that state of submission until the ritual is complete. Now try doing that with a child crawling around and going off to who knows where. Or when you go into prostration, he comes and sits on your head. Or he starts wailing and you wonder if he is hurt. It was just not doable. I was left with the night prayer only, which I performed when the children were fast asleep and Khalid was thankfully home. Then it became a habit. The next time I thought of prayer was when my boys grew up and I had to inject religion into their lives. Until then, the colors in my prayer rug had faded, and the threads unraveled.
9.
Ramadan without Ramadan
Why I Stopped Fasting
I continued to lose my grip on religion.
Glen Oaks, New York. 1972
Saqib was barely a week old when Ramadan began. Neither Khalid nor I fasted. God had given me a temporary exemption—a benefit of nursing a baby; and Khalid took a personal exemption—he played hooky. We were just not in the mood. New York City did not rejoice in welcoming the holy month of Ramadan: TV news was silent; there were no special Ramadan programs; missing were the sounds of Qur’an recitation; absent were the green and white RAMADAN MUBARAK signs on stores; I did not hear the sounds of the adhan resonating from the minarets of the nonexistent mosques announcing the beginning of the fast at daybreak; and restaurants remained open. At home, there was no domestic help to cook the predawn suhoor meal; no murmurs of the elders reciting the Qur’an during the afternoon hours; and no chatter of the family gathering for the iftar—breaking of the fast at sundown. The communal sense that goes with fasting was not there. It was just I, home by myself with a newborn baby, fully immersed in diapers and feedings—stealing a lucky nap, totally flustered over my inept mothering skills and convinced that Dr. Spock didn’t get it. Islamic rituals had taken a seat in the last row on the bus journeying through child-rearing. We were adrift.
* * *
A gentle knock on my bedroom door in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. It’s 3:00 a.m. Razia, our cook calls out to me, “It’s time for suhoor.” I stumble out of bed, brush my teeth, put on my dressing gown, and, knotting its belt, head downstairs. Razia has laid out the table, and Mummy and Daddy are already eating. I break a piece of the greasy, crispy paratha, and scoop the ginger- and garlic-flavored chicken curry. A steaming cup of tea jolts open my sleepy eyes. The clink of forks on china is the only sound as we eat in silence. Razia and Aurangzeb eat in the kitchen and clear away after we have retreated upstairs to recite the Qur’an. Now I start hearing the voices of men singing in chorus, glorifying God and the Prophet, resonating from the mosque down the street. A chorus from the second mosque joins in, then a third, the closer ones louder, the farther ones fainter, each drumming their own song in a competition of sorts. Voices from the street call out again and again, “For those fasting, it’s time to wake up,” rousing those who have no intention of fasting. I keep drinking water until the melancholic cry of the adhan rings out, signaling the beginning of the fast. The naat singing has ceased. We quickly gulp a last sip of water and, in our hearts, declare to God our intention to fast. The sky has lost its pitch-blackness with a break of grayish hue. I perform the ritual ablution to purify myself, washing my hands, face, arms, and feet three times, drape the dupatta over my head, remove my shoes, spread my prayer rug in my bedroom, and stand in the presence of God to offer my morning prayers. Mummy prays in her bedroom. A few minutes later I am struggling to fall asleep, but that cup of tea won’t let me. I could forego the tea, but then I would have to go through withdrawal with a ten-hour piercing headache. I do fall asleep, just before it is time to wake up again.
There will be no eating or drinking until sundown. No water either. No lunch hour in offices, and no ladies’ coffee parties. Restaurants display signs, Open for Non-Muslims, the Sick, and Travelers. Thankfully, the sign does not list menstruating women. A girl seen eating in a college cafeteria is a dead giveaway: she is having her period. Or playing hooky. At home, we let Razia know in hushed tones that as of tomorrow, one of us will not be fasting, and she gives us the understanding nod. Lunch is brought up to her bedroom to avoid the stares of the male help in the house. I would rather fast than be exempt. Once Ramadan is over, I am supposed to make up the fasts for each day missed. I am unable to do that. The world has moved on, people are back into the swing of eating, and trying to get up at 3:00 a.m. and have suhoor all alone, fast when everyone else is eating, break your fast when everyone else has already had dinner, is not easy. I honestly don’t know why girls are not allowed to fast during their period. Daadee Amma, suffering from multiple chronic ailments, is exempt. She will never be able to do make-up fasts and therefore gives charity as compensation.
We are getting a little woozy by late afternoon. It’s dehydration more than hunger. Iftar won’t be until 8:00 p.m. We start counting the hours, and then the minutes, to sundown. I perform my ablution, retrieve a copy of the Qur’an—wrapped in green velvet—from the highest shelf of the mantle where it has been placed out of reverence, kiss it, place it against my forehead, and take my place on the diwan next to Mummy. I cover my hair with the dupatta and start reciting. My goal is to complete the recitation of the Qur’an by the end of Ramadan. With thirty chapters to cover in thirty days, if I can recite one and a quarter chapter a day—the quarter makes up for days lost due to that stupid period—I can be done. Downstairs, we can hear the clatter of Razia’s cooking, the aroma of spices whiffing up the stairs, whetting my appetite. With minutes to go, we gather downstairs for iftar at the dinner table. We take our places, pray in silence for God to accept our fast—and, between God and I, to make the seconds go faster. And
then the sound we have been yearning for—the adhan. Bismillah! I start in the name of God, and we reach out for the dates. Prophet Muhammad would break his fast with a date. Razia has made rooh afza–flavored pink milkshakes—the fruity rosewater-flavored cool and refreshing drink. The fruit chaat gives me the sugary oomph—the battery charger getting plugged into the outlet. At this time, I am not thinking of all the hunger in the world—the idea behind fasting—I am conversing with my grateful taste buds over those crispy pakoras. Razia and Aurangzeb break their fast in the kitchen. A sip and a bite of each, and I am full. A pity—fasting has killed my appetite. All those pakoras beckoning!
I retreat to my bedroom for evening prayers. When I emerge in the sunroom, Aurangzeb has wheeled in the tea trolley. The cup-a-tea I have been yearning for. I sit cross-legged on the diwan and inhale the aroma of cardamom-flavored tea. I warm my hands, holding the cup with both palms. I am feeling lazy and sleepy. But wait; there is dinner—at 10:00 p.m. Then night prayer made longer with the Ramadan Taraweeh prayer. To bed at midnight; then up again at 3:00 a.m.—the daily ritual for thirty days.
Now that you have had a glimpse of Ramadan in Pakistan, do you blame me for chickening out? OK, so the days are not that long in October—daybreak at 5:30 a.m., sundown at 6:30 p.m. But still, think of it: a sleep-deprived new mom nursing a week-old baby, having to wake up at that odd hour, cook, eat, try to sleep; and when she finally sleeps, baby wakes up; then she is hungry and thirsty all day…. Thank you, God, for exempting nursing mothers. But what was Khalid’s excuse? And what was my excuse a year later? Or the year after? Or the year after that? Let’s just say that the environment and the support system were not there. There was no flow to go along with. And we did not have the wherewithal to create that flow. Not yet. Unable to integrate our religious rituals into our new lifestyle, we put religion on hold.
It was the birth of my children that created that gap. Later it would be concern for my children that would close the gap—with religion reinvented. For now, I had folded my prayer rug and placed it deep down at the bottom of the pile.
10.
The Christmas-ization of Eid
“Mummy, why can’t we have a Christmas tree?”
I had been expecting this question since the first Christmas lights went up after Saqib’s birth. I, the perfect planner, anticipator of all scenarios, had laid the groundwork and would be ready to deal with this question when asked. In fact, if I played my cards right, he might never ask the question.
Within six months of Saqib’s birth, we had a critical mass of Muslim families. A total of three. My friend Rabia, Kausar, and me—three Urdu-speaking families from the subcontinent, with three baby boys. We were all worried. How are we going to explain to our children why we don’t celebrate Christmas? How does one explain to a child that, yes, as Muslims, we believe in the miracle of Jesus’s birth, we believe he was a prophet, but we don’t celebrate his birth with a tree or gift giving. That is not good enough for a child. Who doesn’t love the festivities of lights, Santa Claus ringing the bell, shoppers walking out of Macy’s with piles of gifts, children lined up at the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue, the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, the towering tree in Rockefeller Center, and the city as decked up as a Pakistani bride. Well, if we love it, won’t our children? Won’t they wish they were part of it? Wouldn’t they want a Christmas tree in their home? Wouldn’t they want gifts? Won’t they feel that they are missing out on life? Won’t they wish they were born Christian? Oh, dear! Well, don’t just stand there and wring your hands—do something!
I reached out to my Jewish friend, Nancy. Minorities reaching out to minorities.
“You have to come up with a substitute. When is your religious holiday? Make a big deal out of it.”
We will Chrismas-ize Eid, give it a makeover. We set the ground rules: (1) all three families have to take the day off. No excuses. (2) We adopt one another as family, get dressed in traditional shimmering shalwar kameez—baby boys included—without the shimmer. (3) We all go to Manhattan for Eid prayers. (4) We converge back home for a potluck feast. (5) We dress up the apartment inside and out in colored lights (never mind that we will have to explain to the neighbors when they ask, “Christmas in October?”). (6) There is no sixth—we are not going to put up a tree. (7) We exchange gifts for the children; replacing the traditional eidee of cash gift; and make a noisy fuss over tearing open the crackling gift wrap and going, “Yeah,” “Oooh,” “Aaah.” Just as Christmas. Brilliant! Of course, we pulled it off, Eid after Eid, year after year. More babies came along, more families joined the trio, houses replaced apartments, Eid parties moved from living rooms into basements and eventually into rented halls. We were smug: our children will never miss Christmas.
I was wrong.
Asim was six when, on Christmas morning, he woke up crying with muffled sobs.
“What is it, Asim?” I rushed over to his room.
“I wish we had a Christmas tree.”
Mommies, did that tear your heart out?
Why couldn’t we have had a Christmas tree? It’s just a tree. What was I afraid of? That we will lose our children to another faith? That somehow their identity as Muslims will get compromised? Over a tree! He is crying, for crying out loud! What was my problem?! Depriving my child because I couldn’t handle my insecurities!
I called Nancy.
“So get him one.”
I never got him the tree. By the time next Christmas rolled around, I had convinced myself that he had grown out of it.
Decades later, when I walked into Saqib’s home during the holidays, I saw to my surprise and relief a mini Christmas tree in the family room. Saadia, my conservative, nice Muslim daughter-in-law, had demonstrated more sense than I.
11.
A Muslim among Orthodox Jews
The first time I saw a Jewish person was when I came to America. There were no Jewish families in Pakistan. I had never come face to face with a Hindu either—same reason. Pakistanis were pro-Palestinian, and the country had fought three wars with India. I had been in New York for less than a week when Khalid took me to his hospital’s Christmas party. The medical residents were Pakistani, Indian, and Jewish.
The Indian and Jewish people seem to be rather nice—they are welcoming, friendly, and chatty—just like regular people.
Next week Khalid’s colleague—Jewish—brought his family over to visit us. His wife, Nancy, took me under her wing and showed me the ropes. She became my lifeline. To her I owe her my child-rearing skills. Ruth Jaffe, the nice old lady upstairs who would invite me in for coffee, hand me recipes, and take me grocery shopping—you got it—was Jewish. My obstetrician—Jewish. Dr. Orlicker, Saqib’s pediatrician, whom I revered—Jewish. Khalid’s boss, whose reference got him his next job—Jewish. Khalid’s hospital: Long Island Jewish. It didn’t take long for my mind and heart to pop open. On my first visit back to Pakistan, when Saqib was a year old, my family kept hearing the word “Jewish” in my discourse. Sensing the sensitivity, I switched my ambassadorial role, from promoting Muslims with my American friends to promoting Jewish folks with my Pakistani brethren. Think of it this way: if you don’t have Muslim friends, you are likely to believe what you hear.
Young Israel Community. Staten Island, New York. 1976
I didn’t know what I was getting into when we bought our first house in Willowbrook, Staten Island, a neighborhood of semidetached, tree-lined houses. Gerald Ford sat in the Oval Office, and Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto was president in Pakistan. Khalid had completed his Fellowship in Hematology/Oncology and was employed by the Staten Island Medical Group. The three-bedroom split-colonial was within our reach. An eat-in kitchen with glass sliding doors opened onto the deck; a formal dining room and a sunken living room with southern exposure was perfect for hosting parties; and the family room on the ground level opened onto the fenced backyard for the children to play in. Asim and Saqib, now ages one and four, shared a bedroom, and we set up the third bedroom as a
study and guest room. One Saturday morning I decided to go introduce myself to my neighbors. This was, after all, a homeowners’ neighborhood and would have a more welcoming mindset. I started ringing doorbells. No answer. The cars were parked in the driveway—they had to be home. You got it: it was the Sabbath. And this was the Young Israel Community, clustered around the synagogue only two blocks down—an Orthodox Jewish community.
One of Khalid’s Jewish colleagues who had invited us to their house asked, “Why did you buy a house in an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood? How will you fit in?” Daddy was visiting us from Pakistan and had noticed, looking out the window, the procession of families, well dressed, well groomed, walking their strollers to Sabbath services. He said to me, “People of faith, no matter what their faith, make good neighbors. They live by the rules, they are disciplined in their way of life, and it’s bound to have a positive influence on your children.” He was right. And I got a bonus out of it. I no longer had to explain to my children why we don’t eat pork and why we eat halal meat (the equivalent of Kosher). I didn’t have to get into the circumcision part—yet. The first time I told my children, “We don’t eat pork,” they said, “My friend Jason doesn’t eat pork either.” At Saqib’s fifth birthday party, while all other children were savoring the cupcakes, Jason stood by. He did not touch a crumb. Mummy pointed it out to me, “See that little boy. He is watching everyone eat and is not eating. Such restraint, and he is only five.” I seized the opportunity.
After the party is over, I will have a talk with Saqib. I will draw attention to Jason, explain the whys and why nots in the Jewish faith, then segue into, “Likewise, Muslims have their dos and don’ts.” My intelligent son will see the light.
“Saqib, did you notice that Jason didn’t eat anything?” I delicately introduced my preamble.
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