A Day in Hyderabad: Part I

I had only met Lily when I was leaving the Bishop’s party. All I knew about her was that she was the 19 year old daughter of one of Paul’s childhood friends. We clasped hands and smiled at each other. She begged me to come to her house instead of going home and promised to show me her city, Hyderabad. I said I would come back to visit her if I could and we eagerly exchanged phone numbers. Perhaps it was the deep rapport Paul has with her father, which gave me an instant sense of connection to Lily, as though we were family; it was a feeling that this relationship was worth investing in even if it wasn’t always comfortable. Because of this, I perked up my ears when I heard, last Friday night (June 25), that Paul would be going to Hyderabad the next morning.

When I questioned him about his plans, Paul explained to me that he would be leaving at 8:00 the next morning to drive the hour and a half to Hyderabad city for a meeting. The meeting would go until noon, they would have lunch, and then he would go to a village on the outskirts of the city to lead a worship service. If I wanted, I could call Lily before he left in the morning to see if she was free to host me for the day. I was hesitant. It was already past midnight and I didn’t relish getting up at 7:00. Also, I was uneasy with the prospect of being stranded in Hyderabad without anyone I knew for a whole day. I was afraid of becoming exhausted and miserable. Still, it seemed as good a time as any to follow up on my promise to visit and to take the adventure given to me. What is the point of being here if I insist on staying comfortable, right?

That night I prayed that, if it would be a net blessing for me to go, I would be able to get in touch with Lily and that she would be free. I prayed that, if I went, God would sustain me and bless the time. Then I texted Lily and went to bed. Five minutes later, I received a text back, “Means you tomorrow come to my house and call in morning? Yes dear, of course dear!” So it was settled. Tomorrow would be an adventure! Little did I know then just how much of an adventure it would be.

Things started well when Paul woke me at 7:00. I had slept well and felt alert. I dressed up as I’d seen girls here do when going visiting with earrings, a little make up, and Pakistani high heeled sandals. I questioned Paul as to whether I should bring clean water and toilet paper. He said to bring water just in case, but not to worry about the toilet paper. After I made myself two fried eggs and a thermos of tea I felt ready for anything. At 8:00 sharp, Padri Shamu arrived to pick us up. When I opened the side door, I was surprised to find the 8-seat van already full of Padri Shamu’s wife, four children, water-cooler, and bags. I squeezed in next to his wife Miti, a large dark woman dressed in flaming pink tribal clothes. My backpack had to stay on my lap as the engine caused the floor bulge under my feet, leaving no extra room. In this cramped, cozy fashion, we bumped along the highway.

It was exciting to watch the road. In true Pakistani fashion, Padri Shamu weaved through traffic, never missing a chance to go around a truck or donkey-cart, avoiding head-on collisions by speeding up and blaring his horn. At one point, we accidentally got on the wrong side of a divided highway. Padri dealt with it by turning on his lights and staying close to the divider until there was a break in the wall and we were able to accelerate into the appropriate stream of traffic. I spent the time taking note of the country side so as to be able to tell you about the fields, roadside snack stands, and peculiar vehicles. At one point a motorbike passed us driven by a man with two toddlers sitting in front of him and a woman in high heels riding sidesaddle behind him! I will have to write you a description of the highway ethos in another post; this one already has too much for me to tell!

To my surprise, we didn’t stop when we reached the chaos of Hyderabad city. We navigated the construction and crowds and continued back out into the countryside. We turned off the road onto a narrow dirt path made for a cart. Surely the fashionable Lily and didn’t live out here! The path turned into a strip of mud bordering a stagnant strip of shallow water. Once we got past the water, we arrived at a village of mud huts with thatched roofs and lounging farm animals reminiscent of a nativity scene. We had come to Miti’s village where we would drop off the family to spend the day with Grandma and all the aunts, uncles and cousins.

I gingerly climbed out of the van, suddenly feeling very silly in my fancy sandals. I was greeted by a wave of short women with tribal tattoos on their weathered brown faces. They put their rough hands on my head when I bowed and then they pulled me forward to kiss my cheeks. Thus I was welcomed by Miti’s family. As Paul greeted the villagers, I wandered around. I took pictures of water-buffalo lounging in a neighboring river, some with only their noses poking out of the water. I watched two children redoing the floor of their hut by efficiently spreading a layer of buffalo dung mud over the floor, corners, and the base of the walls. Nothing about the village buildings gave away the fact that they were made of dung mud. The air smelled fresh and the buildings looked like they could have been made of khaki-painted plaster. There were no square corners, every edge was rounded and the dry mud was solid but crumbled to powder if punctured.

After waving goodbye to Miti and the kids, Padri Shamu, Paul, and I climbed back in the van and drove back to Hyderabad. We arrived at St. Thomas Cathedral where I was met by Lily’s father, Amanat, a quiet man with a gentle face. Paul and Padri Shamu said goodbye and went inside to have their meeting. Lily’s father, beckoned me over to his means of transportation, a motor bike! I swallowed hard. I knew that I would have to ride sidesaddle, like all women in this country, but I didn’t know if I was allowed to hold on to Amanat. In the end, I decided that I would hang on even if it wasn’t culturally acceptable. No use avoiding local disapproval by falling off the bike in traffic. Sitting sideways on the back of the bike, no helmet or any kind of protective clothing, both besandled feet sticking out on one side of the bike and my backpack protruding from the other side, I was glad I had at least some rudimentary experience with how to lean with the bike and not resist the momentum. I focused all my energy on not upsetting Amanat’s balance as we bounced over fissures in the road, squeezed between lanes of carts, and crunched over a sandal that suddenly flew into the road from somewhere to the left. I was glad to arrive 15 minutes later, my front leg on fire from the strain of the one position.

Amanat and his family live on the third floor of a ramshackle apartment building, very modern and luxurious compared to Miti’s village. Amanat has seven children ranging from Paris, Joy, and Lily who are in specialty schools for Civil Engineering and Pharmacology respectively, to Harry who is in high school, down to John, Johnson-John, and Joseph-John, who are in elementary and middle school. Amanat works as an art teacher since he has not found much market for his oil paintings of colorful village scenes. His wife, a large cheery woman, works in the hospital next-door to the apartment complex.

From the moment I arrived in the home, the family treated me like royalty. They ushered me into their sitting room, pushed the coffee table up to my knees and placed on it in front of me plates of cookies, chips, two kinds of trail mix, and glasses of water and coke. While I sat surveying the junk food feast, Lily rushed off to make me chai tea. The others watched me anxiously to see if I would like what they had offered me. I sat awkwardly for a few minutes, picking at the trail mix and nibbling at a cookie. When Lily came back with a cup of chai, she tittered about how I must not like the food since I had barely touched it and would I like a different kind of cookie? At that I piled a plate high with a hearty portion of each offering and the room relaxed into comfortable conversation about differing cultural values and definitions of “rude”.

After I admired a picture hanging on the wall that Amanat had painted, a blazing sun setting behind thatched huts, Amanat motioned for one of his sons to get something from another room. He returned with another painting, this one done on a long strip of black cloth. The painting was of a moon shining over a river and illuminating sleeping village not unlike Miti’s. “I make for you a gift.” said Amanat, motioning with his hand for the boy to offer it to me. “I can not sell it and you can easily take it with you.” I looked at it with eyes shining. I hated to let him give me something with such personal and professional value, but unlike the sugary snacks, this was a gift I would truly treasure. After some polite protestation, I accepted whole heartedly. “I will show it to my friends in America and tell them about you!” I promised. “You will show it to your sister and father. Show them my art.” was his simple response.

As we sat and I ate, Amanat asked me what I would like to do for the day. Bashfully, I lifted my palms, I didn’t know what the possibilities were but would be happy with anything. Amanat nodded solemnly. He told me that there was a museum of Pakistani culture situated right behind it was a place called “Ranibad” which included gardens, a zoo, and “fun land”. I smiled vigorously. That sounded perfect! Again he nodded and then stood and left the room.

Since I was no longer occupied talking to their father, the young people crowded around me. Lily, my special friend, put jewelry on my wrists, ankles and head while I looked at pictures of her family. Then she pulled out tubes of mandi (hena) and started to apply it to my hands. The little boys took from me my camera and had great fun with it. The oldest brother plugged a DVD player into the TV and started playing for me Indian music videos. After we were done with the mandi, Lilly pulled me to my feet and dragged me to the center of the room to dance with her to the Bollywood tunes. Blushing with awareness of all the brothers watching me, I clumsily mimicked her movements and was soon laughing along with the rest of them. Eventually Amanat came back and informed me that he had arranged transportation for us all to Ranibad for after lunch. And so the morning went on. I played little language games with the children, exchanging English and Urdu words, was served a snack of mangos on their tiny terrace overlooking a dusty courtyard, and discussed the American perception of Pakistan with Amanat.

Eventually, at 3:00pm, lunch was served. I was very concerned that the entire family of nine and the relative who had brought a van for us to use would formally sit and watch me eat lunch alone, but I shouldn’t have feared. Since charpai beds, on which meals are often eaten, didn’t seem to be a part of their apartment furniture, we all sat picnic-like on a sheet spread on the floor of the sitting room. When I served myself a timid portion of chicken in rice, Amanat’s wife reached over me and dumped an additional three portions onto my plate. She was also very concerned that platters of bindi (okra) and chicken curry were always well within my reach. Though at first I was wary of excessive spices, I was quite hungry for lunch at this point, and I was happy to find that the food was deliciously edible. Amanat’s wife smiled and promised to give me the recipe. After lunch, around 4:00, we were ready to set out on the day’s activities around town. I felt as though I had already had plenty of excitement for one day, but much more was to follow!