In March of 2013, I was invited to attend a wedding in Pakistan. I spent two weeks in Karachi, Hyderabad, Lahore, and Islamabad. This is the account of my real experience there. Out of respect for the privacy of my friends, I have not named anyone, and I will not be posting pictures of their faces, or providing details which may reveal their identities or locations. Read more about my diaries here.
Tuesday, March 26th, 2013
Karachi, Pakistan
I woke up in the
aqua room at 9:30am. Feeling that I must have slept in, I hurried out to the dining room
to find only the bride and her mother had awoken. Everyone else was
still sleeping soundly. The bride told me to go back to bed, said we would have
a long night and I might as well sleep while I can. So I returned to bed, where
the room was dark and hot, and the fan shredded the air above me at an alarming
speed, so fast that I worried obsessively whether it would unhinge itself from
the ceiling and descend on my sleeping person.
At around 10:30am it became
impossible to sleep anymore. Already several relatives were awake and walking around the room as
though I could sleep through noise like a cat, so I got up and took my turn at
the queue for a shower. With only one bathroom and several women, planning a
shower was like orchestrating a small production. As each girl got her
turn the washroom became wetter and steamier. By the end of the day it was impossible to dry oneself without stepping outside the house.
Breakfast - as they
called it - was served at
11:30 am. It consisted of one roti, and one papar, which were eaten
together by breaking off a piece of each with one's hands. I was dressed and
ready to leave within an hour of waking up, and was told to hurry because we
were leaving for the mall soon, however, when it became obvious that I was the
only one making haste, I sat on the orange leather sofa and skyped with my family back home. As there was no private room for me
to enter, I had that conversation while alternating between the orange couch in the living room and the balcony, where the
children were not too loud and the adults were not too mischievous. The very idea of
having a private conversation in this circumstance did not seem achievable, so
I settled with a semi-private conversation, which involved me speaking to only
one person in a crowded room full of curious onlookers.
Just after
12:30 five of the girls got into the white car with the mustachioed driver,
and in what is typical of Pakistani fashion, took the longest and circuitous
route to the mall. We dropped off the youngest sister at the bazaar, where she would
run errands alone. When I saw that little girl get out of the car and enter the
dark alley on her own I felt a sense of panic, as though it was the last time I
would see her. Then I realized why crimes are so terrible, because nobody
expects them. No one would expect the youngest sister of the bride to go
missing in a crowded bazaar. Pakistanis,
even knowing they live with the treat of constant danger, never expect this
sort of thing. I watched her disappear into the crumbling walls as our car sped
off to the mall.
Karachi's nicest mall |
When one pulls
into the Karachi mall the first order to business is to be escorted to the
entrance. Uniformed guards open the passenger doors like valet. They never open
the driver’s door, because he is a driver, after all, not a
customer. This would feel like an elaborate service, if it were not for the fact that the uniformed men carry rifles. The entrance is only a few feet away from the circular
driveway, where more armed guards carry rifles and hold the door open for us as
we walk in. Inside the building, women and men
separate to either side, put their purses and possessions on an x-ray belt,
walk through a metal detector, and pick them up on the other side. After that
step through the security checkpoint the mall looks like a mall in any other country: shiny and cold consumer heaven. The food court is on the top floor, like the malls in America. The
center of the mall is an open atrium where one can see all levels. Most shops
are jewelry, rug, or clothing stores. I was most interested in the clothing
stores, but too shy to go in by myself. Perhaps because it felt so similar to
home, or perhaps because of the elaborate security, I felt safe in the mall. I felt like I could
walk away alone and be fine, like I could enjoy a cup of coffee and not worry
about how I was going to get through my day. The mall was far less crowded than
the streets. Here no one stared at me or caused me to feel out of place. It was
surreal to think that just outside the glittering walls men were riding
donkeys and selling oranges from wheel barrels.
However, at the mall I did not have control over my time. We were on a hunt for a present for the groom. He wanted to a watch, and had given specific descriptions to the bride, yet in every shop it seemed they had a watch with the right color but
wrong dimension, or the wrong color but right wrist band style. Nothing was
exactly perfect. I followed the bride and her cousins around every store until
I could no longer feign interest in men’s watches.
While walking from one watch store to the other, I kept myself entertained with small talk. I learned that there is no Starbucks in Pakistan, but for some time they were considering opening a store, though the plan fell through. I learned that this mall, the Dolmen Mall, was the newest and finest mall in Karachi, and I believed it. After the resolution that our watch journey would not conclude successfully, we wondered into a clothing shop and I felt instantly at home. Thankfully I fit into a size large at most stores, and that I could generally afford local designer brands from boutiques.
While walking from one watch store to the other, I kept myself entertained with small talk. I learned that there is no Starbucks in Pakistan, but for some time they were considering opening a store, though the plan fell through. I learned that this mall, the Dolmen Mall, was the newest and finest mall in Karachi, and I believed it. After the resolution that our watch journey would not conclude successfully, we wondered into a clothing shop and I felt instantly at home. Thankfully I fit into a size large at most stores, and that I could generally afford local designer brands from boutiques.
By
the time we returned home it was well past 3:00 o’clock, but lunch was waiting
all the same. The older relatives had already eaten, so I was left with the
morning’s rotis, and some delicious vegetable curry. After eating I was told to take a
nap. Although I had slept in late, the heat of the day exhausted me, and I knew we
would be having a late night. Besides, there was nothing much for me to do but
sit on the orange leather couch and watch others watch me, so I was
thankful for the opportunity to pass some time.
Around 5:00
the cousin came into my dark room and said that it was time to get ready. I was
already awake because the siring of voices had elevated in the last hour, so I
knew intuitively that more guests had arrived and that the women were anxiously
preparing for the ceremony. Although we all had our outfits planned, it took
over one hour to get changed, as there was only one bathroom for six girls, and
much time was spent queuing in front of the mirror or waiting for the toilet.
This was my first experience with the way Pakistani women get ready. Everything
takes longer than imagined.
Although I had
initially tied my satin orange sari by myself, the women laughed at my poor
attempt, and one cousin - whose school uniform is a navy blue saree - re-draped mine
to perfection. The pleats on my should were crisp, and the skirt was wrapped
around my waist, tight like a doll. I felt beautiful.
Stairway to the roof |
Tonight's ceremony was the Sangeet, and it was being held on the roof of their
apartment. When all the women had finished adorning themselves, we went outside
and climbed the white concrete stairs towards the roof. A flashback came to my
mind and I was at once transported back to Puerto Vallarta, where the white
stairs of my hotel room glistened in the Mexican sun. But
this was Karachi. The sun was already below the horizon, but the white stairs,
embellished with red rose petals, evoked the same magical feeling.
On the roof, the stairs lead
not to an open platform, but to a door with enclosed walls like a room in a
Pakistani home, only the sky was the ceiling. A long white hallway stretched out before me, obscured by hundreds of shoes that
clung to the sides of the wall. Beyond the hallway was
another door, and I could hear a lively chanting from the other side. I removed
my shoes and lay them on top of the pile of others that had accumulated,
uncertain of how anyone would be able to match with the right pair of shoes a the end
of the night. The door opened revealed a sea of women glowing in yellow light,
their black hair, bright smiles and colorful clothing radiated joy against a
back drop of the Karachi night sky.
Walls of yellow
cloth had been erected around the perimeter of the balcony to enclose the
guests in a private space. Apart from the womens’ black hair, all other colors
in view were bursting with brilliance. Reds, golds, oranges, and blues.
They clapped in
unison as a group of women near the stage chanted a tune, reminiscent of a folk
dance. As I tiptoed around the sitting women, following the bride towards the
stage, her mother pulled me by the arm and placed me at the seat right next to her
on the stage. I kept refusing, partly out of the humility
as I knew that sitting on a chair on stage was an honor, and partly out of
embarrassment: I wanted to blend in with the crowd of black-haired women, not
be on a pedestal for all to observe me. At her insistence, I sat on the stage
and was horrified to see that the only other two women on the stage were the
bride’s mother and grandmother. Surely I was not deserving of such an honored
seat. I immediately felt shame that I was sitting on a chair when not even the
bride herself was. However, I couldn’t very well get up and sit on the floor,
so I smiled shyly and clapped my hands in unison with the women.
Sangeet at dusk |
When I felt no one was watching, I whispered in
the bride’s ear, “Who are these women?”
“I have no
idea,” she laughed.
The chanting soon subsided into one woman singing. She was reading from an old, wrinkled leaflet. I
guessed it was a traditional wedding song, and that the leaflet was probably only brought
out and used for such occasions. It was a long song, lasting almost a half
hour. Somehow, the other women knew which parts to sing along in, and which
parts were meant to be unaccompanied. I was given a tambourine, and I watched closely at the other tambourine-holder for the cue to start playing.
When the songs
ended, the plays began. The play consisted of four middle-aged women, acting
in the same tiny spaces they were sitting, with props of only hats, jackets,
and brooms. Though I could understand nothing of the language being spoken, I
noticed that two women were dressed in manly clothes, their voices lowered, and
their demeanor masculine. They were playing male roles in the play, while the
other two woman held brooms and pans, playing the same roles they held in real
life, as wives and mothers. I couldn’t help but thinking how, with my western eyes,
instead of seeing a wedding ritual that predates modern history, I saw it a drag show instead.
The colorful
ceremony concluded with dancing. The melody was the same one to which
we were greeted in the beginning. First the women in the play, who
were obviously veterans of such wedding festivities, got up and danced. They held hands
and bounced their hips from side to side. If there was room, they would make
a circle. The bride joined in, then brought her sisters and cousins into the
circle. Sure enough I was pulled in as well, though I felt self-conscience
dancing while so many strangers sat around me.
Women at the sangeet |
When the
photographing commenced, the bride suggested that we all go to the panipuri
cart for dinner. The guests had eaten most of the food already, so it was best
that we family members find a meal on our own. Although I loved the delicious home cooking, I was so excited at
the prospect of eating outside the house. What started as the journey of the bride and a few people, quickly turned into 16 siblings and cousins driving three cars to the panipuri place.
I rode in the
car with the second
eldest sister, and I learned that driving in Karachi did not have to be as
terrifying as the family driver led me to belive. The
road from her house to the pani puri cart was unlit and unpaved. The darkness
was only penetrated by our headlights, and an occasional small fire of burning
trash in the distance. Lone men would walk grimly on the sides of the roads. I
could understand clearly why a woman would not want to be walking along these
roads in the darkness of night. As soon as we parked at the cart, a young girl
of six or seven approached our car asking for change. She was persistent and
would not leave the group until finally one of the bride’s older male cousins
shoed her away like a street animal.
the pani puri cart |
When the men at
the pani puri cart saw our large group, they hurried to put tables and chairs together.
The result was a long, uneven concoction of plastic tables of different
heights. On the uneven ground some of the tables were slanted and
wobbled, but no one seemed to notice. We were sequestered in our own little
dark enclave, surrounded by tall buildings, and shielded from the street by the panipuri cart. The menu was hand-written on paper, which had the wrinkled texture
of being wet and dried many times. Not one item on the menu was more than $1. I
ordered the cheekoo shake, because I had never heard of a cheekoo. The bride
ordered orange juice was squeezed fresh and served with a hint of salt. Our drinks were served to us
in huge glass pitchers, while the food arrived within minutes on thin paper
plates. Many orders of pani puri and chaat were passed around. We shared every dish, though there
was enough for each person to have their own.
The alley was so
dark I could scarcely make out the faces of my friends. We ranged in age from ten to thiry-one.
Men and women. Most of us - except me - where close
relatives of the bride. I had been using the words “them” and “they” the whole
time in Pakistan, forever secluding myself from the inner circle of the people
I encountered.
But for that
moment, the word “us” seemed more appropriate than any other.
We returned from
the pani puri cart around 10:30pm, but it was not time for bed yet. The sisters
were busy rehearsing their dances for the mehndi, and I stayed up dancing with
them for a little exercise. Sleep did not come until past 1:30 am.