Before I went to India I read Vikram Seth’s tome “A Suitable Boy”. The professor who assigned me work for my independent study (the argument that sealed the deal in convincing my parents I should go half way around the world with a [crazy] woman I barely knew) assigned me the book. I have bought three copies. Two I lent out and never got back. I saw it at Goodwill two years ago for .50 cents. A bargain. There are nearly 1500 pages. Anyway, the story is woven into an explanation of Indian Politics in the years just after partition. I doubt that a clear explanation of Indian politics could take up any less than 1500 pages. So I vaguely follow what is going on politically in India and Pakistan… at least when the headlines show up on my Google homepage. I feel like I’m tied to those places.
My first trip to India was preceded by my first trip to Pakistan. My hostess was this incredibly extroverted, verbose woman who runs a great store in my hometown. The store is a cultural experience on its own. When you walk in the powerful aromas of moth balls, cigarette smoke, green tea, and incense hit you in a strangely pleasant way. You can find everything you never knew existed there. Amazing things. Beautiful things. Bizarre things. I went with a friend and mentioned that I would love to go to India. Without hesitation the shop owner suggested I go with her next time she goes on a buying trip. There is a reason you have insane adventures when you are young. My older, wiser self would smile and make my exit as soon as possible. The young, naive child of 18 jumped at the opportunity. All it took was convincing my parents that a very normal invitation had been extended. And then I had to round up the money. You might think that a woman in her 50s who has no problem traipsing the slums of Pakistan and India to purchase items would be… local. Nope. She is as Caucasian as I am. She was a fascinating character. Raised by wealthy parents, attended Sweet Brier–then joined the peace corps and–this is where the details are fuzzy. I think she got pregnant and had a daughter she raised on her own for a while. At some point, she married a perfectly boring yes man who endures her constant lambasting with quiet indifference. He was in foreign service so they lived in India. He had three girls of his own, so they formed an all-girl kind of Brady Bunch. Her daughter married a Pakistani she went to college with… maybe Columbia?? I don’t remember which college they attended. But they just as strangely opened their home to me–a perfect stranger, and I had no problem accepting their generosity. I arrived in Pakistan during monsoon. There was flooding in Lahore. It had affected some of the extended family. The social culture shock was more of an adjustment than I expected. In the limited circles I was used to dressing for, jeans and a t-shirt are/were perfectly acceptable. I was not prepared for dining with jewelry. I was not prepared for a home environment where servants outnumbered residents. I was not prepared for a family dynamic where the nanny to child ratio was 1-1. I definitely was not prepared for the kind of snide, scrupulous condescension the family treated me with. I don’t think I even understood what it was. I just knew I felt way more comfortable talking to the maids than anyone else. The maids were mostly from other Asian countries. One evening I stayed in while the adults were out and I got to talking to the maids about their lives. One was putting her sisters through nursing school. She showed me her family photos. Another was from Sri Lanka and hadn’t seen her own daughter for 3 years. They weren’t mistreated as far as I knew, but they definitely weren’t supposed to talk to me. There were cooks, men I never saw except when they might bring things from the kitchen to the table. And I guess what we might call a Butler, his is the only name I remember. It was Khalid. I think I just liked that name. And I liked how they said it. An arabic-sounding guttural ‘k’. Then there were sweepers and a… I’ll have to look up the word. Chokendar (?) an armed guard who was posted at the entrance. A couple drivers, and various others. I’m just a military brat so this kind of household was soooo foreign. I just didn’t know how to relate. But two things of interest happened in Pakistan when I was there–wait just kidding. A ton of interesting things happened. Two political things happened. One–someone in the family was sent to jail. There was talk over the dinner table about business practices and laws that made it impossible to avoid activities outside the law. The family were very distressed about it. And just after I left Bhutto was ousted from power. And to give you an idea of what a clueless naive little idiot I was, I sent the family a card when I got back. Mostly for the daughter. A perfectly spoiled little girl, super intelligent–but obviously overly fussed over. Anyway, I sent her a card and some candy and the “get out of jail free” card from my monopoly set. Gah. Also, I had purchased ink pens and Tootsie pops to hand out to children while I was there. I was going to give poor children the gift of tooth decay. I got to keep the pens, but the candy (two Sam’s club boxes full, a good 20 pounds!) was immediately gifted to the family. They don’t get much American candy so it was a treat. But, to my annoyance I was not even credited as the giver. And when I left they gave me some for the plane. I could seriously go on forever about this. I almost forgot why I started this post to begin with. Oh yeah…
So I saw the google headline Musharraf rules out resignation and I got to thinking about Pakistan. I’ve been there. It seems bizarre to me now, here I am a 30 year old full time mom of 4 (sorry Crysta I had to steal the phrase) so far away from that upheaval and distress. In my comfortable home, not a servant in sight, but things are orderly. When I think of the near scrapes and mishaps that could have literally ended my life (I’m much more paranoid these days) its amazing that I’m here. I may get into those some other time. When I left Pakistan I left by myself. You won’t believe this, but the airport in Lahore, thankfully, has extremely tight security. But nothing is explained in English. No flight numbers, no easy to read flight schedules. I vaguely recall that I had someone, a loafer, there to help me get through the various security lines and get my bags in the right direction. He wasn’t very aggressive, not like most of the men were. So I ended up getting bumped back in line several times. Since he didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Urdu he couldn’t do much more than point me in the right direction. I almost missed my flight. I don’t know how easily I could have gone missing. They make a copy of your passport and every one is to be accounted for before the plane takes off. I was responsible for delaying my flight, I think. I just didn’t understand which line was for my flight. Luckily for me I had made friends with a guy who sold music at a concession stand a week earlier when I was flying to Delhi. I wanted to pick up some Ghazals, though I didn’t understand a word. He recognized me and dragged me to the doors that led out to the huge airplanes sitting with stairs pulled up to them. There was an argument, a heated one that went on for a few minutes between the music guy and the guy who lets you get on the plane. Finally, I was shoved out the door in the direction of my airplane. I don’t think I’ll ever know how close I came to not leaving Pakistan. That, and all the menacing looks I got from some people on the street make me feel somewhat tied to Pakistan. With little tiny strings. Not nostalgic strings. Strings of fear and amazement.
