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.
Wednesday, March 27th, 2013
Karachi, Pakistan
In Pakistan,
breakfast in served at noon.
I love any
country where you can wake up at 10:00am and the host asks why you are up so early.
It was the morning after the Sangeet, and Hindu women from
Karachi and surrounding villages in Sindh gathered in the
living room of my host family for an hour of singing and dancing. I had expected something less formal
compared to the previous evening, but when the women came, I was surprised at how dressed up they were for a midday event held in a living room. There
were so many woman squeezed into the house that we danced around the sitting women, the
tips of our colorful dupattas sometimes grazed a sitting guest.
[Author’s note: I learned after returning from Pakistan that this ceremony is called the Saat. I regret not doing enough research on wedding customs before I came to Pakistan. At the time, I assumed that someone would explain everything to me in detail before it happened, but instead, events unraveled and I was given only brief explanations as they were happening.]
[Author’s note: I learned after returning from Pakistan that this ceremony is called the Saat. I regret not doing enough research on wedding customs before I came to Pakistan. At the time, I assumed that someone would explain everything to me in detail before it happened, but instead, events unraveled and I was given only brief explanations as they were happening.]
After the
dancing commenced, a lunch of rottis and vegetable curry was served to the
guests. Plates were passed around from all sides, and bread and curries were
dolled up from large pots. We sat on the floor at ate with our hands.
At 2:00 pm it
suddenly became urgent that we leave for the parlour to get our mehndi done.
Mehndi is the art of applying henna to the hands in an elaborate design, and is
usually reserved for special occasions such as weddings. In Pakistan, only the
bride applies henna up to her elbows and on her feet. The female guests are limited to designs on their hands, so as not to outshine the bride.
The bride and
her cousin left in one car for a parlour, whereas her sister, two cousins, and
I would be going to the market to find another place.
The car dropped
us off at the bazaar, the
same one which housed the jewelry store I visited on the first day. Surrounded by disfigured buildings, people maneuvered through a
puzzle of cars and street carts into tiny, unmarked shops. The parlour was on the
second floor, and had only a curtain for a door. When we pulled back the
curtain we were shocked to see that the parlour was scarcely bigger
than a bathroom. It had only two chairs, both of which were occupied
by women getting hair cuts. I had assumed that this place was purposely
chosen by my hosts, but apparently no one had been
there before, and when we looked through the catalog of their mehndi designs,
the cousins acted very unimpressed.
“I want
elaborate mehndi,” one said, “this is too simple.” So after some time it was decided that
we would go to another parlour for henna. The youngest sister began
calling other parlours in Karachi, but they were all booked. Defeated and uncertain of
how to proceed, we called the driver and returned home around 4:30.
At that point I
was told to take a nap, as nothing would be happening in the next few hours. I lay down in the dark room and two hours later I was awoke with a sudden sense of unexpected urgency. [Author’s note: This became a humorous characteristic of my time in Pakistan. Wait around
for two hours, then suddenly everything becomes urgent.]
I was told we
would be getting mehndi done at the house of the family’s former servant. She
was a very poor woman, so she would appreciate the money, and besides, all the
parlours in the city were full.
At 7:30 our
driver careened through the dark alleys of Karachi until we came up a hamlet of
tiny concrete structures surrounded by a wall. The driver pulled his car right
in front of the gate
and we hurried from the car door through the entrance,
careful not to linger for any time in the street.
When I imagined
the home of a servant, I had expected a small hut, but instead I
found myself in a sprawling maze of concrete hallways and rooms. The hallways
themselves had no ceiling, but the rooms did. There were no doors, only
curtains to separate the rooms. Although
old and in obvious need of repair, I thought the house seemed like
a large and specious living quarters. We were guided by the sister down the long hall
and through a curtain on the right, where we suddenly found ourselves in the
room of the former servant. She was an old woman, in a bright orange shalwar kameez. A
young man slept on the
floor, atop a bed that was made of three naked couch
cushions placed side by side. Two girls sat in the corner, silently watching
us.
The old woman greeted the sister, and the after an exchange of words the sisters face became
grim.
We had forgotten
the henna.
“We had to buy
henna?” asked the cousin.
“Of course we
have to buy henna,” the sister replied.
The servant did not have the money to buy henna
in advance, so we were supposed to buy it and bring it
with us. Now it was past dark and too dangerous for a woman to walk on the
street. The driver had also gone to pick up other family members, so there was
no chance we could call him and have him take us to buy henna.
getting my home made mehndi |
Apart from the
sleeping and obviously ill boy on the cushion, there was no other man we could
ask to get the henna. After some hesitation, the old woman said she would go
out and buy it. The sister gave her rupees, and I watched as the woman
covered her bright orange kameez with a black abaya, clearly the only abaya she
owned, and tied a black scarf around her head and face.
Alone in the
stranger’s house I took time to
carefully observe my surroundings. The walls were two-toned, a dark sea green from the floor to the middle
of the wall, and a mint green from the middle to the
ceiling. Illuminated green Christmas lights were tacked to wall, spelling out
the word “happy” in English. Below a plastic streamer taped to the wall seemed to
spell out the word “I'm” but the sentence was left unfinished. On another wall
hung a faded blue picture of the hajj, a sign that we were in the home of a Muslim
family. Opposite the hajj picture, was a
shelf with an old box television. In the corner of the room, tucked away in a small
alcove, was an ancient sewing machine. A black iron beast from the
industrial age. There was nothing else
in the room. The floors were concrete, like the walls, but there were no
carpets or rungs, only a floral sheet separated us from the concrete floor.
I asked the
sister about the dwelling, mistakenly thinking that the entire compound
belonged to them. I was then told that this compound was
shared by many families. Each family had one room with only a curtain door, but
there could be as many as six people in that room. We were not sure how many
people were in this woman’s family, but the sister was fairly certain that the
sleeping boy and the two young girls also lived in this one room. The kitchen
and washrooms were shared by all the residents in the dwelling.
Though we had an abundance of time and awkward
silence, I didn’t ask any more questions or talk about things
in the room. I wondered where they prepared meals, where and how they ate them,
how they took baths or used the washroom. I wondered about many things in their
daily lives, but I didn’t ask any more questions. The sleeping boy hadn’t
stirred a bit since we arrived, and the girls kept their gazes low in
deference.
Nearly an hour
passed since the woman left. We began to worry after thirty minutes, but I
could not decipher the source of concern from the sister or cousins. Were
they worried that the lady encountered some dangers on the dark streets of Karachi? Or were they just annoyed that she took so long, and worried about their henna designs?
Just as these thoughts were floating around in my hear, the women returned with two bottles of henna. They were about 30
rupees (or 30 cents) each.
She called the
girls over, and the three of them began to do our henna in a rush. One girl did
my hands while the woman and another girl did henna for the sister and one
cousin. The other cousin said she would wait and do hers tomorrow, so she
watched as we got our mehndi done.
The girl worked
silently on my hands, showing no emotion and making no sound. I passed time by
studying the embroidery on her kameez, and wondering how she spent her days
when she was not applying mehndi to the hands of a foreigner.
The driver
picked us up at 9:00 which was the time we had pre-arranged. In the end, we only
had 45 minutes to get our mehndi done, which was not enough time for any
elaborate design. After we returned to the house I was told not to wash my
hands for 12 hours or even try to peel of the henna, but the feeling of dry
henna on my skin, and that sickening earthy smell made my hands feel wretchedly
dirty, so I ended up wiping it off within hours of returning home.
The girls were
horrified when I came out of the bathroom with my orange hands.
The henna is supposed to turn deep red, but on my hands it was a light orange.
Ancient Ceremony, modern technology |
“You’ve ruined it!” they exclaimed, but by
morning the henna had turned dark orange, and by the following afternoon it was
burnt orange. Although it was not as beautiful and the deep ruby color of the
cousins’ henna, I was still pleased with my simple design.
Then, as if our day was
not busy enough, I was
told that we would perform the Tel ceremony before
going to bed.
The Tel Baan is
a small ritual that takes place in the home of the bride. Guests take turns
gathering around a small shrine, dipping their fingers in oil, and rubbing it
on the bride’s head. A priest was called to the house to perform the ritual,
but we were all shocked to see how young and handsome the priest was. He could
not have been over twenty-five years-old, with a checkered shirt a wide black rimmed glasses. He was the
most modernly dressed of anyone in the room. During the Tel, one of the cousins
called a relative on skype, and held the laptop next to the shrine and recorded
the ceremony for the distant loved ones to see.
The ancient
ceremony stood in stark contrast to the Skype screen.
Dinner was
served at home, around 11:30 pm, and pots and plates were again passed around
to the guests. When we finished eating, and finished talking, I again made it to
bed well after midnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment