Lunch with Golden, the tailor

Today, June 24, was a bigger day than I expected. Golden, the tailor to whom Pat is so loyal, invited us all over for lunch as a way of saying goodbye to Mark, the missionary kid/college student from Canada who has been staying with us. At 2:15 sharp, we piled in the car to drive to our 2:00 lunch date. I expected lunch would be like the others I have experienced, a proud family showing us their best hospitality with food and fellowship. In a way, it was as I expected though with very different flare. Lunch with Golden was like a combination of the entertainment I have received at respectable, though poor homes, and being treated like royalty by an entire village.

We drove 15 minutes outside of town along the main road. We passed a field full of people squatting in tents made of bamboo polls and ragged but colorful cloths. We also passed an extensive graveyard, the mounds of dirt and white marble markers coming right up to the road and sprawling along for quite a while. At a gas station, we met one of Golden’s sons on a motor bike and he led us along the unfamiliar dirt allies that led to his house. We parked our car between a mud wall and a lean-to of sticks to which were tied-up two cows and a baby water buffalo. We were met by a knot of timidly staring children who disappeared as Golden came out to greet us. The six of us followed Golden and his son through door ways and across courtyards, past animals, mud pits, and squatting village women, until we reached the walled-in expanse that belonged to Golden. While being recorded on an enormous video camera held on the shoulders of another one of Golden’s sons, we filed into the cool and dark of a finished building at the back of the courtyard. We started to arrange ourselves on the rug-covered ground as people commonly do here, but Golden and the others pulled us up onto the chairs lining the back wall. They would not have their guests be so dishonored as to sit on the floor.

After we were sitting, Golden introduced us to the various members of his family, his grown sons, their wives, their children, his wife, his father etc. Every time someone entered the room to be introduced, we would all stand again, greet the new person, clasp their hands or bow our heads to be blessed or bless their heads as was appropriate to our individual ages. Halfway through the procession, Golden’s mother, wife, and some other relatives brought lays of fragrant pink and white flowers and placed them around our necks. I blushed and bowed and muttered “thank you” in every local language I could think of. I was glad to sit down again and let the conversation as equal begin again.

I was seated on the far end of the row of chairs with Pat on one side and a woman with a baby on my other side. The woman was very slight of frame, looking little more than a child herself, from what I could see of her, which wasn’t much, as she had a pink veil draped over her head and face. But I could see that her hands were soft and small, like a child’s, and that her nails were carefully painted and that she wore red bracelets on her slim wrists. She soon placed her little hand on my arm and, holding her veil out to the side to reveal her face to me but to keep it hidden from the rest of the room, (women here never let their faces be seen by their father-in-laws,) she struck up a conversation with me. I was only able to talk with her unaided as far as “Kay say hah?” (How are you?), “Teek-kay” (I’m fine), and “Obka nahm kya hah?” (What is your name?) After that, I had to call on Pat to interpret.

The girl’s name was Gourgut and the baby she held was her first child. She was the young wife of the son of Golden who was doing the videotaping. She told us proudly that she was the only one of the women of the family who could speak Urdu in addition to the tribal language of their cast; she had picked it up by listening. When we asked about her level in school, she told us that her parents had forbidden her to go to school, but that she had taught herself to write her own name and that of her husband. Now her family had said that, as a mother with a baby, there was no reason for her to study. She, however, wanted to learn so that she could better help her children to receive an education. Right now, there is no school close enough for the children of their compound to attend, so, though there is much willingness to learn among the many children, none of them are receiving any education.

I felt very sorry for this pretty young girl who was so bright in countenance, so gentle and earnest in her wistful talk of learning. I felt an instant warmth for her and wished we could be better friends. For the first time during my time abroad, I felt a tug at my heart, urging me to do something. I wished I could bring education to this compound. I wished I could tutor this woman and help her see her children educated. It wouldn’t take much, just someone who knew the language, had a few workbooks, and was able to spend some time here. This thought is, of course, accompanied by the knowledge that neighborhoods just like this are the norm rather than the exception across the poor provinces of Pakistan. How can compassion in one heart hope to turn the tide of poverty and ignorance for the people just like Gourgut all over the country?

My ruminations were disturbed by the announcement that lunch was served. I was impressed by how many resources it took to host a party of our size. Golden went above and beyond. Hand sewn quilts were spread over three bed-frames upon which were scattered an array of dishes reminding me of the mad-hatter’s tea party. Bowls of spiced yogurt, plates of stir-fired “sour-gourd”, platters of rice, containers of chicken curry in red sauce, plates of fresh tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers, and even little dishes of doughy “bhurfee” cookies waited for us on a long mat laid out lengthwise across the beds. As is customary for hosting company, we sat on pillows at the edges of the beds and ate while members of Golden’s family swished away the flies and served us drinks. Golden presided over the proceedings, a smile beaming from his gentle, kind face. Golden and his family would not eat lunch that day, the occasion was devoted to showing us honor and hospitality. After the meal, the men of the family cleared away the dishes and children gave us glass bottles of soda pop. Then four regal women came out of one of the mud buildings and presented Paul and Mark with hand printed Sindhi ajarak cloths and Pat and me with sequined wool shawls. Gifts of cloth from our favorite tailor.

I didn’t understand it fully then, but it was really quite remarkable that we were able to have such a lunch with Golden and his family. Golden belongs to the Meghwar tribe, one that is considered part of the lowest caste of the all outcast castes. No one other than other Meghwars is likely to be willing to eat with Golden and his family, which clarifies why Golden was so eager to show us honor with his best hospitality as we visited in his home. Secondly, Meghwars usually are relegated to professions that no one else will stoop to, such as making shoes, which involve handling cow leather, a Hindu taboo. Because of this, Meghwars are usually very poor and, though they would kill their last chicken to serve you, they would not usually be able to afford such extravagant hospitality. Golden, however, has worked hard, in spite of his social handicap. Golden works as a tailor, making a tidy living. His children have pursued education, one working as a medical technician and another as a wedding camera man (thus the video camera.) Because of their industriousness and our willingness to eat with them, they were able to host us to a feast.

After the meal, some of the children tried to coax Jodie to come play with them. Jodie shyly clung to her mother until I offered to go with her. I was eager for an excuse to walk around the compound and take pictures. I dragged Jodie along with me to translate and was soon engulfed in a wave of children. They were absolutely delighted by my camera and literally fell over each other to throw themselves in front of the camera and into the picture. They made a game of seeing who could rush into the frame, wherever I pointed the camera. In this way, most of the pictures of clay fire pits, mud holes, reed fences, and piles of bricks are completely obscured by clamoring children. It was great fun. I especially enjoyed photographing the children posing with the many animals, (cows, goats, water buffalo, donkeys, great green, orange, and blue grass hoppers etc.)

Pretty soon some of the mothers of the children joined in the fun, beckoning me from house to house, showing me their rooms with painted neon flowers and posters of movie stars on the walls, the outdoor corners where they cooked, the piles of buffalo-dung mud which would be made into cement for building and chips for burning. I saw their embroidery hanging above their doors and on their pillows. I saw a large boil protruding from the forehead of one of their toddlers. They proudly posed in their colorful tribal outfits, their white plastic bracelets reaching from their wrists to their shoulders. They showed me their shrines where they nightly play sitar and burn incense to their gods. They took me to one room and proudly pointed out an enormous loom on which was the beginning of a heavy, ornate rug being woven of red, gold, and blue wool in detailed designs. I had trouble photographing even this wall-sized loom because of the children crowding in front.

One golden child stood out particularly. He, Savwayi, is a cherubic sunbeam of boyhood, a prince among the others, looking to be about five years old but already capturing my heart with his smile. We all noticed him from the very beginning when he entered the sitting room, before lunch, and went down the row of us, shaking our hands. I noticed his neatly combed black hair and bashful glances. I was impressed with his gentlemanly handshake, just like a little host. It was really exceptional how all of us commented to each other about this boy, marking him out of all the children. I thought to myself, “We have found Jodie a husband.” As I was taking pictures around the neighborhood, Savwayi made it into many of them. He was rascally assertive in jumping in front of the camera and flashing his irresistible, roguish grin. But even when he didn’t run to the front, my camera was again and again drawn to him of its own accord. For myself, I wished I could catch him up in my arms and keep him forever.

Eventually, it was time to go. As the whole village crowded around, Paul prayed for them in Sindhi. Pat and I sat across from Paul and Mark, praying under our breath in tongues. Savwayi stood at Paul’s knee, watching with his big eyes wide and attentive. Gourgut stood at the fringes of the crowd, her veil over her face, still holding her child. Golden stood holding a grandchild, his father next to him, many of his 10 children crowded around. When Paul finished his prayer, it was time for goodbyes, smiles, hugs, and blessings. The whole crowd accompanied us to the car and waved until we bumped and bounced away down the unfinished path toward the main road.

This has been a long story and I congratulate you for reaching the end. I hope, however, that this is only the beginning of the relationship between Golden, his family, and those who are willing and able to bless them. As we drove away, there was talk among us of getting a Village Outreach Worker to offer, health, literacy and Bible training at this compound. I hope that Gourgut will get the chance to have the learning she craves and that Savwayi will grow up into his shining potential. I hope that these honest, hospitable, hardworking, hopeful people will have a chance to hear what I believe is true: that a living God cares about them enough to do whatever it takes, even to send his son to die, in order for them to know him and receive his blessing. I hope that God’s love and compassion may be imparted to these precious ones by the faithful ones who are his body here in Pakistan.