Dastarkhwan

This is my first post here and I think it may be too long (?) Let me know the word limit and I will edit it accordingly! Also I appreciate any and all feedback. PS. Just re-discovered my angsty teenage blog and logging in from the same account. Ignore that part. - Zainab 

After arguing back and forth with my mother about going to Naazi Qureshi’s Milaad I had finally given in and compromised on following her an hour after the start time and leaving promptly when it was done. I hated socializing after.

“But how will the aunties get to know you?”

My mother didn’t need to tell me why it was important for the aunties to ‘get to know me’ or more importantly know that I was a devout practicing milaad/majlis attending shia. Ingrained in my subconscious along with the somewhat contradictory idea that despite being a girl I was the master of my own destiny (since my parents were the ‘progressive’ sort), was the notion that I must someday (soon) pick an appropriate acceptable shia-syed boy to marry. That I must not date him but be introduced to him through acceptable channels, like family friends, rishta-aunties, or other legitimate authority figures in my life – these were all things so seamlessly a part of my subconscious that you would think I was born with this knowledge. Only now when I look back do I realize I had a choice. And that it wasn’t necessary to be the person you’re told you are. At the time though I believed in their Truth. That we all had to get married and that otherwise we’d somehow get left behind and that at the same time I could still be the Master of my Destiny. I would dress myself everyday with this knowledge buried deep inside my heart. The modesty with which I would do so varied depending on where I was going. I would never wear jeans to Nana Nanis. Going to Nana Nanai’s house was dictated by a whole other set of rules titled ‘But What Will Nana Nani Say?’ The dress-code or wardrobe for their house was quite similar to the one reserved for Milaads and Majlis – these were all places where I was wholly my mothers daughter. Conservative, sweet, ever-accommodating, aware of my values and well-liked. Long kameez’s, full-sleeved or half (at the most), matching shalwars and accessories, hair neatly tied, and acceptable, digestible girl, sensible beyond measure. To my friends birthday parties and my all-girls school’s annual bonfire I told a different story altogether. Jeans, tops (though still modest, covering my crotch as my mother required) but decidedly western. This was my (relatively) liberated self. It was a curious and careful balancing act, dressing the self. It was a skill I didn’t have much practice with up until grade 12 which was when we were no longer required to wear uniform at school. The rule removed a couple of years before we graduated to give us agency we were explicitly told and to equip us with the life skill of presenting ourselves appropriately in (should the need arise) public spaces. I didn’t arrive at this balancing act by accident – my mothers reactions to what I considered adding to my wardrobe, her supervision in deciding that wardrobe and most of all the way she looked at me with approval or without once I was dressed and ready to leave the house trained me to expertly know when to wear what. 

On this particular 15^th of Ramzan – which was the date of Imam Hassans birthaday, celebrated by his dastarkhwaan I chose to wear a pink chiffon flowy kameez, with tiny embroidered white flowers forming vaguely defined borders at both sleeve edges and at the bottom of the kameez. Classically cut the kameez came down to my knees. I had shorter ones more in-step with the trend of the day but this particular occasion didn’t call for immodest trendiness. Even the knee length was pushing it. With it I wore matching white chappals (to go with the flowers) and a white bag with a gold clasp. I looked like such an aunty but it was ok, none of my friends were going to be there and the cousins that were, would be dressed the same way. Our respective embarrassment at being dolled up would cancel each others out. At least we wouldn’t be forced to look at each other in the compromising act of crying for a fourteen hundred year old tragic slaughter. This of course excludes the cousins who whole heartedly embraced being dolled up and paraded around in the hopes of receiving the best rishtas of the most eligible shia/syed bachelors in the country (when you looked good, news traveled far). I was too lazy to do my hair so restrained my spastic curls in a neat bun instead. Besides it would get covered for most of the milaad with the ever-important dupatta. Even though in everyday life the dupatta eventually became obsolete (and there will always be some who will argue otherwise) it never became ok to attend a religious event without one.

Armed with my dupatta and some light make-up I stepped into Nazi Qureshi’s house. I took my chapals off and added them to the sea of shoes just outside the lounge. Women shrouded in brightly coloured dupattas, sat with their backs toward the entrance, facing the aalima who was perched on an elevated chair with a mic infront of her. She was pausing in the middle of an anecdote about Hassans life to praise his generosity. I had heard the account before, of how he knew he was going to be poisoned by his own wife but continued to take the poison anyway. The mood however was happy and I doubted it would get too dark – this milaad was celebratory, but sometimes you couldn’t tell what turn the milaad would take before eventually returning to more light-hearted fare. Just as I spotted some empty real estate to occupy, in between a woman in a bright turquoise sequined dupatta and an even brighter orange – I thought my white with pink flowers would break up that colour clash nicely, I saw my mother turn her head and look toward me. She started waving frantically but as always she was sitting way up front. No way was I going to walk over the heads and shoulders of numerous aunties to then plop my derrier in the tiny crevice of a space she had saved with her hand bag. I had myself on numerous occasion been a victim of the aunty who in her eagerness underestimated the size of her buttocks, to find little stepping spaces between women already seated on the floor to then lower her behind into one such stepping space closest to the podium. Her behind would either crush a thigh or two on its way down before the thigh swiftly extracted itself from the uncomfortable situation or her roles of fat would forcibly push aside women seated around said foot-sized space. Granted I was skinny, but I had a heightened sense of etiquette partly owing to the same mother who was now calling me forward to seat me in a prominent position and so that I may be able to reap the full benefits of this religious sermon. Instead I made my way to the spot I saw earlier avoiding further eye contact with my mother and sat down. I crossed my legs, lowered my head and pulled my dupatta infront of me from over my head so it would form an awning behind with I could hide, texted a few friends to make weekend plans and when I was done with that spent the rest of the time pretending to listen. This is when the after had just begun. When I was beginning to decide whether college was just a phase or if that’s who I really was. I was definitely not religious anymore, but I hadn’t completely lost my way into atheism. I was only flirting with the idea. I flirted with many ideas in those days. And even when I decided on something I always left room to return to the Before. Easily bored, I romanticized and discarded. That part of myself followed me into the After.

The two positives of attending Imam Hassan’s dastarkhwaan had to be the food and the prompt end time. Because the fast had to be broken at sundown, there was no way some self-indulgent reciter would stay on post-lecture. Sometimes the lecturer herself would stay on – that was the worst. Of course the ideal situation would be if the lecturer finished at a reasonable time (an hour after she started) and then there was no post-lecture recitation. Fat chance though. But this particular milaad, I loved because of its definitive end time. Especially when I arrived promptly an hour before the fast was to be broken and no earlier (to my mother’s dismay). The second positive was the food. The food was always fantastic. Scriptures had it, that the Prophet celebrated the birth of Hassan – his first and eldest grandson – with a lavish feast. Hassan was also the one you prayed to (or prayed via – sorry) when you wished for gainful employment or relief from dire economic circumstances. Naturally, no expense was spared in celebrating one who essentially could make you rich. So I sat there counting the minutes until a notebook in my peripheral vision caught my attention. Someone was furiously scribbling in it. I turned to look and recognized Amaara. I had never seen her at any of the shia gatherings, not majlis’s and not milaads. I assumed she must not then be shia. The sunni’s that attended regularly could be counted on one hand – she wasn’t one of those either. I caught her eye and smiled and did a frantic but discreet low wave with one hand. She smiled back. And then went back to scribbling in her notebook. Amaara is a good friend of a friends and I had seen her around LUMS where I worked. We got on well at parties, where we wore jeans, drank, smoked, chatted all the while engulfed in an air of privilege and exclusivity. Feeling special and different owing to our exposure to the West, wearing our liberal values, complaining about the conservative fascists who we felt would drive the country into the ground. Feigning fear, at once protective of our limited superficial freedoms. But the truth was we didn’t really think anyone could touch us. Living in our gated communities with our multiple armed guards and our high-level connections. We never really thought that would change, that the danger could come close let alone touch us. Until it did.

Despite becoming acutely aware of my somewhat provincial shalwar kamees I inched closer as the lecture was coming to a close.

“My mom made me come.” I whispered, a little embarrassed to be found in such a setting by someone from the outside world where I maintained my image as a rational well-educated liberated woman. I waited for her to give me her reasons for being at the milaad. And when she didn’t my curiosity got the best of me.

“I’m researching shia practices and cultures for my Anthro Ph.D.” That made sense. I offered to help being an insider and all. “Is that your mom waving at you?” she asked. I looked ahead and it was. We were standing now, and the salaam was in full swing. “I think she wants you to go over there” Amaara informed me, but didn’t have to. Standing on the tips of her toes my mother grew to a full height of five feet. Her arm extended far above her head, her face the only one turned in this direction while the rest looked ahead. She’s farsighted and so was unable to tell that we had both seen and understood her message. She continued to wave, face scrunched up, eyes squinting in an effort to see if I had indeed seen her. There was an urgency to her waving and so I said to Amaara I’d be right back. She followed me anyway as I made my way through folds of decorated women, diamonds glistening on some, shiny embroidery on others. I smiled and greeted the ones I knew on the way. Once I got to her my mother clamped onto my forearm and with wide eyes looked into mine and whispered, “jaldi jaldi, they only have one left.” She walked me up to the very front of the crowd where the aalim was receiving felicitations for having delivered a most excellent sermon, women hugging her for longer than was necessary in hopes to absorb her knowledge through osmosis, kissing her hands, offering her presents, asking her to pray for them. Others filing away their much longer discussions and asking instead if they could have time alone with her later on.

“Syeda apa this is my daughter Sakina”

“MashAllah what a lovely girl”

“Sakina if you have any questions you should ask Syeda apa now – she’s very knowledgeable”

I drew a blank and realized Amaara and her notebook had made it this far alongside my mother and I.

“At home she has so many questions, why this why that. Maybe she’s being shy now” Sometimes I couldn’t believe I was twenty-two years old. And then in her pleading way again, my mother asked, “Syeda Apa, please can she have the gaana?” Then lowering her voice, “you know, the one we spoke about earlier.”

Syeda Apa smiled. “You know Sameena, there is only one left and I have a feeling its just for her. These are the ways of the Maula – who choses whomsoever he pleases. She is truly blessed. Come here dear.” My mother nudged me forward as Amaara started to write in her tiny notebook. Syeda Apa turned around and grabbed what I assumed to be a gaana. Two intertwined strings red and green were attached to two large bobbles. Later when I squeezed them, I realized they were just cotton balls wrapped in gold fabric. My mother handled the gaana gingerly as Syeda Apa placed one hand on my forehead and held out her palm so I might place my wrist in it. I gave her my right hand but she asked for both. So narrow were my wrists and so large was her hand that she was able to wrap her hand around both – regrettably her thumb and forefinger weren’t able to meet. She closed her eyes and started to pray in Arabic, slowly at first and then quickly. My mother closed her eyes as well, the gaana held in both her hands, presented at shoulder height in front of her. I thought it rude to keep my eyes open so I too closed them. And then between the Arabic Syeda Apa asked my mother in Urdu to tie the gaana around my wrists. As my mother did I wondered how long the whole process would take. And more importantly when I would be able to untie my wrists. After a painful five minutes Syeda Apa blew on my face and let go of my hands; her breath was musky, her spit warm. As I opened my eyes to meet Amaara’s neutral gaze, I heard Syeda Apa say to my mother, “Just wait and see. She’ll be married by the end of the year.” Embarrassed, for I had no desire at the time or urgency to be married, at least not by the end of the year, my face flushed a bright red. Amaara smiled and mouthed the word RELAX; there must have been some sort of panic in my eyes. I looked at my mother and rolled my eyes as she smiled giddily.

“When can I take it off?” I finally had a question for Syeda Apa.

“Not until tomorrow morning at least – but its recommended to keep it on if not on both hands than on one for a little longer.”

My mother fed me with her own hands later that night at Naazi Qureshi’s house as aunties walked past me, affectionate smiles bestowed upon the obedient daughter. Later that night and in the privacy of my own room, I untied the gaana. But perhaps it was already too late. For even though I wasn’t married by the end of the year, I did get engaged.