The dog was not my Great Aunt Shima's only pet. She had her own bandar-nee, or monkey (bandar is urdu for monkey and nee at the end of a word denotes that it is a female). Amazingly, the monkey was kept, not at the village house, but in her upscale city house in Lahore (in the neighborhood known as Model Town, considered very exclusive by Lahori standards).
The monkey was given to her by some friends/clients who perhaps bred them (or somehow had an extra monkey on hand). Mahboob, her adopted-son, who told me about the monkey, never got to see it for himself, but heard about it when he accompanied Shima Khala to Model Town (she was then in the process of moving from the city to the village house, which she had just built).
One more way in which my Great Aunt Shima was a rather amazing woman!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Shima Khala and Mr. Dawg
I learned recently that my great aunt Shima had a dog at her village house (same site as the recently closed school). Oddly, she had the dog the entire time I was visiting there, but for some reason I didn't realize it (although I may have heard the dog barking); and since I was busy running around to various government offices for my husband Asif's immigration papers, or helping him with his English, when I was not teaching in Shima Khala's school, I didn't take the time to find out whose dog it was.
The dog was by all accounts, a very good dog, and very loyal. Mahboob and Shima Khala evidently used to bathe the dog regularly (give him ghusal as Mahboob jokingly says), and although he was kept outside, he was part of the family. Other family members, as well as visitors like Asif and I, also slept outside in the courtyard on charpoys customarily.
Shima Khala habitually went to bed early and rose early. But the night of my youngest uncle Laulak's wedding in Lahore, Shima Khala stayed up much of the night talking and enjoying the company of her guests--my grandmother Mahmudah, my other great aunt Nazrat, and my great uncle Razi and others who were in town for the wedding.
The next morning, Shima Khala did not get up bright and early as she usually did. The dog seemed to sense something was amiss. With his teeth, he pulled a sheet over the sleeping Shima Khala as if he thought she might be sick or dead. Then the dog took her hand gently in his mouth and shook it lightly. She awoke and asked sleepily "Which of you silly people woke me up, I'm tired!" (or words to that effect). Great aunt Nazrat told her, "It wasn't me; it was the dog!"
The dog eventually passed away, and Shima Khala was sad. She never got another dog.
The dog was by all accounts, a very good dog, and very loyal. Mahboob and Shima Khala evidently used to bathe the dog regularly (give him ghusal as Mahboob jokingly says), and although he was kept outside, he was part of the family. Other family members, as well as visitors like Asif and I, also slept outside in the courtyard on charpoys customarily.
Shima Khala habitually went to bed early and rose early. But the night of my youngest uncle Laulak's wedding in Lahore, Shima Khala stayed up much of the night talking and enjoying the company of her guests--my grandmother Mahmudah, my other great aunt Nazrat, and my great uncle Razi and others who were in town for the wedding.
The next morning, Shima Khala did not get up bright and early as she usually did. The dog seemed to sense something was amiss. With his teeth, he pulled a sheet over the sleeping Shima Khala as if he thought she might be sick or dead. Then the dog took her hand gently in his mouth and shook it lightly. She awoke and asked sleepily "Which of you silly people woke me up, I'm tired!" (or words to that effect). Great aunt Nazrat told her, "It wasn't me; it was the dog!"
The dog eventually passed away, and Shima Khala was sad. She never got another dog.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Who is the Real Chand Khala?
On the anniversary of my great aunt's death, I have some very special memories of her I wished to share.
I spent parts of my eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth year in Marake, the tiny village on the outskirts of Lahore, where my great aunt Shima lived. She was extraordinarily generous in her hospitality to me, although she heartily disliked Asif (my husband at the time), who was accompanying me on the later visits. I was in Pakistan to research the effects of war on the Afghan women and children in the refugee camps, about which I was writing at the time.
To my face, Shima Khala (aunt; also used for great aunt, as in this case), ever the Pakistani nationalist, told me I was a fool, and that I ought learn my own history first. At the time, I was indignant, only later realizing the truth of her words. We Pakistani expats (and descendents of expats) drain intellectual and material wealth away from Pakistan, and return nothing but curses to the land of our heritage. We are, indeed, the mentally colonized, in our ignorance of the importance of the ideal of Pakistan, and Pakistan's rich history.
My presence in the refugee camps and in the tribal area did not go unnoticed by the ever-vigilant Pakistani authorities. I was eventually picked up by Pakistani police in Parachinar, who wondered why an eighteen year-old English speaking girl in delicate cotton shalwar kameez, army boots, and thick eyeglasses should be wandering around a dangerous Pakistani border town. I was detained for three weeks while they investigated my presence there.
Since I, not surprisingly, looked Pakistani, they could not charge me with being in the border area illegally, a stipulation that applied only to non-Pakistanis. They looked unsuccessfully for another charge to pin on me to elicit the requisite bribe.
After that I was transferred to the thana in Peshawar. I stayed there for another two weeks, held without charge and disallowed from making phone calls. The Pakistani lady police-wallas felt sorry for me, and treated me well, bringing me fantas to drink.
One day, without warning, the DSP (Deputy Superintendent of Police) informed me that I had a visitor. As I entered his office, I was astonished to see Shima Khala standing there.
This was one of the few occasions on which Shima Khala missed a day at her school. She disliked road travel, but today she had made the long hot drive from Lahore to Peshawar, after handing over the reigns of the village school to a trusted teacher, so that she could bail me out. I felt a twinge of shame at all the trouble I'd caused, but was relieved that at
last I could leave the stifling, roach-infested Peshawar jail. She spared me the well-deserved "I told you so," paid the substantial jurmana and dragged me home by the ear.
I put my writing on hold, and spent the remainder of the summer with her, before returning to university in the States. Once, while I was staying with her, I mistakenly referred to her as Chand Khala, or "Moon-Like Aunt." (It implies an aunt who is very rare, special and priceless.) Chand Khala was a title reserved for my other great aunt, Nazrat. Shima Khala gently corrected me, "No, bay-tay, I am only plain Khala."
During my second visit to the village, I tutored Mahboob and Ali Usman, two of the village children at Shima Khala's request. Mahboob and Ali Usman were both eight years old, with the archetypical, bright eyes and gaunt build of village children. Mahboob was particularly sharp, and one had to continually struggle to come up with new lessons to teach him.
After a long and tiring visit which involved staying almost entirely in refugee camps when not in the village, with no AC in the summer months and no heating in the winter (nor modern facilities in the former case), I returned to the States.
A few years later, I heard that Shima Khala, perhaps seeing the same potential in young Mahboob that I'd seen, had unofficially adopted the young man. They were inseparable. She would not eat dinner without him, nor he without her. When he started going to college a distance away, he would return home late in the day after classes, and become upset to find that Shima Khala had not eaten because she was waiting for him. And when Shima Khala made up her mind, she could not be swayed. She refused to eat without Mahboob.
The first year I was there, Shima Khala's school, which was set up in the side wing of her house, was in its incipient stages, with a relatively small number of children. But the need for the school was so great, attendance grew spontaneously to nearly 400 pupils. Shima Khala, with Mahboob's input, named it Madina-tul 'Ilm (the City of Knowledge). The co-ed school was the sole source of literacy for the indigent village kids, and operated on a sliding scale: free for poor kids, and a nominal charge for the relatively well off. Shima Khala would get up at the crack of dawn each day, and prepare for the school day, no matter how exhausted and drained she might be from Lahore's extreme heat, or how bad she felt, with the high blood pressure and diabetes ravaging her.
During my stay in the village, I taught in the school off and on, and enjoyed the exuberance of the children, so poor in wealth yet rich in life--and blessed with a woman who believed in them. I am sure it was some of this exuberance that kept Shima Khala going on her particularly bad days.
The school was Shima Khala's pride and joy, and an expression of everything she believed in.
For his part, Mahboob clearly loved Shima Khala like a mother, and went to excruciating lengths to take care of her. He was a constant companion to her, eating most of his meals with her (except when he was away at school), listening to her when she was in pain from the diabetes, massaging her, and helping her with all her personal hygiene. He was the primary care giver, as Shima Khala's relatives rarely visited, especially in her final years. Even when they visited, some of them elected to stay in a hotel, although clearly Shima Khala craved visitors and was an impeccable hostess.
At one point, Mahboob even offered to marry me, although he knew I was much older than him, and divorced--something not well looked well upon by conservative Pakistani society--so that I might come there and assist in Shima Khala's care, since he was initially rather embarrassed at the level of personal care he had to provide for her, in the absence of a daughter. Shima Khala had no children of her own and her other female relatives were largely absent.
One night, Shima Khala took a bad fall. She called for help, but there was nobody around to assist. The spacious layout of the house would have made it difficult for the village women, who helped Shima Khala with home chores, to hear her entreaty, even if they had been around. Mahboob became so worried that it might happen again that he started sleeping on the floor at the foot of Shima Khala's bed.
Almost as soon as Shima Khala died, our relatives, who were living in Europe and elsewhere descended upon the estate. They determined to extricate Mahboob from the house he had lived in with Shima Khala for nearly 13 years, and close Madina-tul 'Ilm. This would facilitate the sale of Shima Khala's school, and transfer of the proceeds to (literally) Swiss bank accounts. Eventually Mahboob was thrown out, and the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind ones were successful in whittling down the school.
As I watched all this, I realized that Shima Khala was actually the real Chand Khala, for she had a heart of gold, so rare amongst any in a world filled with greed and materialism. The attitudes of our relatives sickened me to no end. Are any of us, living in the West, really so needy as to necessitate our auctioning off a school like Madina-tul 'Ilm--with all that it symbolizes--to the highest bidder? To me, the actions of my expat Paki relatives resounded of the depravity and ignorance of the looters of the Baghad museum, who could not see the real value of something which was priceless.
I dare to believe the status quo can be challenged. The poor--like Mahboob--will not remain dispossessed indefinitely. And the rich--like my avaricious relatives--will not always remain rich. Inshallah.
I spent parts of my eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth year in Marake, the tiny village on the outskirts of Lahore, where my great aunt Shima lived. She was extraordinarily generous in her hospitality to me, although she heartily disliked Asif (my husband at the time), who was accompanying me on the later visits. I was in Pakistan to research the effects of war on the Afghan women and children in the refugee camps, about which I was writing at the time.
To my face, Shima Khala (aunt; also used for great aunt, as in this case), ever the Pakistani nationalist, told me I was a fool, and that I ought learn my own history first. At the time, I was indignant, only later realizing the truth of her words. We Pakistani expats (and descendents of expats) drain intellectual and material wealth away from Pakistan, and return nothing but curses to the land of our heritage. We are, indeed, the mentally colonized, in our ignorance of the importance of the ideal of Pakistan, and Pakistan's rich history.
My presence in the refugee camps and in the tribal area did not go unnoticed by the ever-vigilant Pakistani authorities. I was eventually picked up by Pakistani police in Parachinar, who wondered why an eighteen year-old English speaking girl in delicate cotton shalwar kameez, army boots, and thick eyeglasses should be wandering around a dangerous Pakistani border town. I was detained for three weeks while they investigated my presence there.
Since I, not surprisingly, looked Pakistani, they could not charge me with being in the border area illegally, a stipulation that applied only to non-Pakistanis. They looked unsuccessfully for another charge to pin on me to elicit the requisite bribe.
After that I was transferred to the thana in Peshawar. I stayed there for another two weeks, held without charge and disallowed from making phone calls. The Pakistani lady police-wallas felt sorry for me, and treated me well, bringing me fantas to drink.
One day, without warning, the DSP (Deputy Superintendent of Police) informed me that I had a visitor. As I entered his office, I was astonished to see Shima Khala standing there.
This was one of the few occasions on which Shima Khala missed a day at her school. She disliked road travel, but today she had made the long hot drive from Lahore to Peshawar, after handing over the reigns of the village school to a trusted teacher, so that she could bail me out. I felt a twinge of shame at all the trouble I'd caused, but was relieved that at
last I could leave the stifling, roach-infested Peshawar jail. She spared me the well-deserved "I told you so," paid the substantial jurmana and dragged me home by the ear.
I put my writing on hold, and spent the remainder of the summer with her, before returning to university in the States. Once, while I was staying with her, I mistakenly referred to her as Chand Khala, or "Moon-Like Aunt." (It implies an aunt who is very rare, special and priceless.) Chand Khala was a title reserved for my other great aunt, Nazrat. Shima Khala gently corrected me, "No, bay-tay, I am only plain Khala."
During my second visit to the village, I tutored Mahboob and Ali Usman, two of the village children at Shima Khala's request. Mahboob and Ali Usman were both eight years old, with the archetypical, bright eyes and gaunt build of village children. Mahboob was particularly sharp, and one had to continually struggle to come up with new lessons to teach him.
After a long and tiring visit which involved staying almost entirely in refugee camps when not in the village, with no AC in the summer months and no heating in the winter (nor modern facilities in the former case), I returned to the States.
A few years later, I heard that Shima Khala, perhaps seeing the same potential in young Mahboob that I'd seen, had unofficially adopted the young man. They were inseparable. She would not eat dinner without him, nor he without her. When he started going to college a distance away, he would return home late in the day after classes, and become upset to find that Shima Khala had not eaten because she was waiting for him. And when Shima Khala made up her mind, she could not be swayed. She refused to eat without Mahboob.
The first year I was there, Shima Khala's school, which was set up in the side wing of her house, was in its incipient stages, with a relatively small number of children. But the need for the school was so great, attendance grew spontaneously to nearly 400 pupils. Shima Khala, with Mahboob's input, named it Madina-tul 'Ilm (the City of Knowledge). The co-ed school was the sole source of literacy for the indigent village kids, and operated on a sliding scale: free for poor kids, and a nominal charge for the relatively well off. Shima Khala would get up at the crack of dawn each day, and prepare for the school day, no matter how exhausted and drained she might be from Lahore's extreme heat, or how bad she felt, with the high blood pressure and diabetes ravaging her.
During my stay in the village, I taught in the school off and on, and enjoyed the exuberance of the children, so poor in wealth yet rich in life--and blessed with a woman who believed in them. I am sure it was some of this exuberance that kept Shima Khala going on her particularly bad days.
The school was Shima Khala's pride and joy, and an expression of everything she believed in.
For his part, Mahboob clearly loved Shima Khala like a mother, and went to excruciating lengths to take care of her. He was a constant companion to her, eating most of his meals with her (except when he was away at school), listening to her when she was in pain from the diabetes, massaging her, and helping her with all her personal hygiene. He was the primary care giver, as Shima Khala's relatives rarely visited, especially in her final years. Even when they visited, some of them elected to stay in a hotel, although clearly Shima Khala craved visitors and was an impeccable hostess.
At one point, Mahboob even offered to marry me, although he knew I was much older than him, and divorced--something not well looked well upon by conservative Pakistani society--so that I might come there and assist in Shima Khala's care, since he was initially rather embarrassed at the level of personal care he had to provide for her, in the absence of a daughter. Shima Khala had no children of her own and her other female relatives were largely absent.
One night, Shima Khala took a bad fall. She called for help, but there was nobody around to assist. The spacious layout of the house would have made it difficult for the village women, who helped Shima Khala with home chores, to hear her entreaty, even if they had been around. Mahboob became so worried that it might happen again that he started sleeping on the floor at the foot of Shima Khala's bed.
Almost as soon as Shima Khala died, our relatives, who were living in Europe and elsewhere descended upon the estate. They determined to extricate Mahboob from the house he had lived in with Shima Khala for nearly 13 years, and close Madina-tul 'Ilm. This would facilitate the sale of Shima Khala's school, and transfer of the proceeds to (literally) Swiss bank accounts. Eventually Mahboob was thrown out, and the Deaf, Dumb, and Blind ones were successful in whittling down the school.
As I watched all this, I realized that Shima Khala was actually the real Chand Khala, for she had a heart of gold, so rare amongst any in a world filled with greed and materialism. The attitudes of our relatives sickened me to no end. Are any of us, living in the West, really so needy as to necessitate our auctioning off a school like Madina-tul 'Ilm--with all that it symbolizes--to the highest bidder? To me, the actions of my expat Paki relatives resounded of the depravity and ignorance of the looters of the Baghad museum, who could not see the real value of something which was priceless.
I dare to believe the status quo can be challenged. The poor--like Mahboob--will not remain dispossessed indefinitely. And the rich--like my avaricious relatives--will not always remain rich. Inshallah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)