A Day in Hyderabad: Part II

After lunch, 10 of us piled into the 8 passenger van brought by the relative and headed out. We went to the museum first. We entered through an arch above which was inscribed, “Museum tells the story since the dawn of history”. The museum was a dimly lit building with rows of displays of decaying animals, dusty cloth, woven beads, and colonial era guns which Lily insisted dated back to 3,000 BC. I most enjoyed the exhibit displaying a series of manikins dressed set up to demonstrate Pakistani professions such as weaver, black smith, and potter. Though it was modest by western standards, it was a fair attempt at exhibiting Pakistani history and heritage; I could tell Lily’s family was proud to show it off.

On the way out, when the museum closed at 5:30, Lily’s relative offered to buy me anything I chose from the gift-shop. I chose, from the piles of hand embroidered clothing and purses, a small bag just large enough for my camera. Though in Mirpurkhas it would have cost 100 rupees, the man behind the counter asked for 1100 rupees. I was appalled by the overpricing but the relative proudly handed over the money and accepted my thanks. Another humbling display of lavish Pakistani generosity. Though I don’t even know his name, I now think of this man whenever I pull out my camera.

From the gift shop we drove over to Ranibad where we met up with Paul and Padri Shamu. Amanat paid my admission and kept me and the rest of the party supplied with water, soda, spicy chickpea mix and pellets to feed the animals in the zoo. In response to Lily’s comment that there is no fun without desert, Paul bought us all twine made of finely spun, mouth watering, sugar. While I shared a soda with Lily, the little boys climbed on the restored remains of an old plane crash. Several beggars had gotten past the admission fee and approached us for handouts. One memorable beggar was a man, flamboyantly attired in a hot pink sari, high heels, jeweled handbag and feminine make-up. Paul explained to me that cross-dressers are not uncommon here and often are professional beggars. My favorite part of Ranibad, however, was the zoo, which allowed patrons to get much closer to the animals than any western zoo I’ve been to. I enjoyed handing food to monkeys, parrots, mountain goats, and ostriches. The crocodiles, zebras, peacocks, and foxes didn’t come close enough to the fence for me to hand feed them but they were still very fun to see.

We all crammed back into the van, with the addition of Paul and Padri, and went back to Lily’s house to pick up my backpack. It was soon time to leave and I went down the row of them, saying goodbye, giving hugs, shaking hands, and patting heads. When I came to Lily’s mother, I saw that she was holding a bag. Proudly she held it out to me, another gift. It was a gift of cloth, enough for at least two three-piece shalwar chamise suits. This gift would cost half of my friend Sunila’s monthly salary. Again I found myself bowing and blushing, trying to thank them enough for their endless generosity. “You thank too much,” said Amanat. “Once a day is enough.” Thus, with thank-yous still on my lips, Padri Shamu steered the van out of the courtyard of the apartment complex and the kind family receded out of view.

As the van bumped and thumped through Hyderabad once more, I enjoyed the space of having the whole back seat to myself. I was hot and tired and just wanted to be still. But they day was not over yet; the sun hadn’t even gone down! We were off to Miti’s village to have dinner and lead a worship service before bringing the whole family home to Mirpurkhas. We arrived at dusk and were met again by a crowd of women and children, Mitis’ sisters and families. Paul went off to socialize and I found myself seated against a mud wall facing a ring of large-eyed children. With absolutely no one to translate, I tried out the little Urdu that I’d learned. “Obka nahm?” (Your name?) I asked the little girl on my far right. “Jilahlee” she answered. “Jiluhlee?” I repeated. She and the others giggled at my mispronunciation but repeated it for me until I got it right. In this manner I went down the row of kids, butchering and confusing their names in turn to uproarious laughter.

Once we were more or less introduced, and I could no longer tell them apart at all because of the deepening darkness, I tried some more Urdu on them. “Kushi hui” (I’m happy) I said. “Hui” they all chanted back. No matter what I said, they repeated it back. So naturally I started a “repeat after me” song that I’d learned from Camp Hebron. “There was a great big moose!” I sang, holding my hands up to my head like antlers. “Moose!” They sang back, laughing and holding up their hands. Delighted, I continued. One little one named Canoe was particularly bright and carried the song to the end while the others giggled. Soon the original 10 or 12 kids had grown to a crowd of 27, all roaring with laughter.

At the end of the moose song I tried “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes”. Then I asked them to supply their words for the body parts. That was when I discovered that they did not speak Urdu! I knew that nose in Urdu is “nack”, eye is “onk”, ear is “kawn” etc. Their words didn’t match up. This is how I began my official study of Kujratthi, their tribal language. Soon I had them teaching me animal names as identified by the sound the creature made. They enjoyed my animal impressions even more than my attempts at their language. I was making quite good progress in my Kujratthi education when I was called for dinner and had to leave my raucous young tutors. Over chicken curry and spicy lentils, Paul reported that the children had asked him if I could stay and be their teacher. Sadly I smiled; it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

After dinner, we laid out large rugs and set up a microphone, harmonium, and tabla drums for the worship service. As the music got started, I sat near the back in the midst of the adult women. For the first few songs, I hummed along, trying to pick up the words. It was after 10:00 at this point and I was fading fast. Without any understanding of the content of the songs, it was hard to stay focused so I leaned my head back against the wall and tried to pray. Pretty soon, someone poked me. It was the regal woman with wispy white hair squatting next to me. When I opened my eyes, she asked me something in Kujratthi. Now it was my turn to repeat senselessly what she had said. She nodded yes and waited for an answer. I stared dumbly. Soon the other women were chiming in, rephrasing, laughing at my empty yet anxious expression. So I said the only word in Kujratthi that came to mind. “Kutthero” (dog). The woman who had originally poked me burst into laughter. Then, incredulous, she made some dog barks to confirm that I knew what I had said. I nodded solemnly. At that point, Paul called over the loud speaker, “Michelle, we are trying to have a worship service.” Blushing and squirming, I motioned the tribal women to turn their attention to the front and from then on I tried to keep my head pointing forward.

The songs and little teachings went on and on. At one point chai and water were served to everyone. Bleary with sleepiness, I watched the young man serving water to the women. He was wearing a long, gray, western scarf wrapped once around his neck and dangling down over his light blue chamise. My attention must have been noticed because later, before we drove away, this young man came to me and, in halting English, asked me about marriage. At the end of the service, incense was lit and a blessing was said over a large tin bowl covered with a cloth. Then handfuls of white wafers were passed around to everyone. Communion, I thought, but when some were dropped into my hands, I found that they were made of solid sugar. I didn’t feel like blasting my system with sugar but the women around me insisted, even pushing their own candies up to my mouth until I started to nibble my own.

This feast marked the end of the service and I laid down on the rug to join the many already sleeping children. But the hen-like women next to me would have none of it. “Chello!” (Let’s go!) she commanded and hoisted me to my feet. The women crowded around me, poking, pinching, and asking unintelligible questions to which the woman leading me would sarcastically answer “Kutthero!” (dog). The woman led me to a charpai bed a little ways off from where Paul was chatting. Here the women stood around me chattering overwhelmingly. Not knowing what else to do, I closed my eyes and stared to sing. The crowd was instantly hushed and I continued singing to myself praise songs until I had the courage to open my eyes. Once I did so, the women started clamoring again only this time I understood, "English geet! Ghauna!" (English song! Sing!) I continued singing until I started falling asleep where I sat. Then they let me lay down and here it was that the man who had been serving water came and tried to strike up a conversation. Here it was that Paul came to collect me. “They say they want you to stay the night,” he informed me. “It is up to you.” That got me up and into the car quick enough, after bowing to be blessed by all my adoring fans, that is. I sat squeezed between Miti and the mercifully open window. It was 1:00am as we pulled away from the village.

We drove and drove. I tried to doze off but the lack of a headrest and the unpredictable bumps in the road made it difficult. Miti seemed concerned by my half conscious state and so leaned herself uncomfortably away from me so that I could lean on her and not be completely upright. She was blissfully soft and steady. Then I found myself being offered tea. We had stopped at a roadside “hotel” (restaurant with charpais out front for sleepy truckers). The car accompanying us with the instruments and equipment had broken down and we were waiting for it to be fixed. I declined the offer of tea none too gracefully and Miti motioned for me to rest my head on her lap. I dozed fitfully as she fanned me until we started moving again. We arrived home at 3:00am. I clasped Miti’s hand in grateful farewell and staggered in to the house. I was slimy from sweat and dust so I ducked into the shower, which had, thank God, enough water pressure for a quick rinse, before collapsing into bed and sleeping till 1:00pm the next day.