Friends Forever

Last night (July 2) I accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friends Razia and Sunila. Sunila had been at Pat’s house working on translating a timeline of the Old Testament into Urdu when she asked me if I would come to eat dinner at her house at 8:00. At five of 8:00 I put on bug spray, shouldered my purse, and struck out into the pitch black, electricity-free night. I had never gone walking alone at night and I was glad to count off the three gateways down the path to the one that opened into her courtyard.

I poked my head in and saw, by the light of a cook stove and various flashlights, dark shapes lounging around on four or five charpai beds, sitting on the courtyard walls, and peeping down from the roof. The place was alive with music from cell phones, children chattering, and the harsh sounds of the grandmother trying to keep order. Seeing my pale face peering around the gate, Razia’s two 10 year old nieces, Sanovu and Sanovia, took my hands and eagerly drew me inside. I went over to the gas stove where Razia was preparing dinner. I sat on the edge of a charpai and chatted with her while she sliced garlic and dried red chili peppers to make a flavorful stir-fry to add to the lentil sauce.

The little girls hung on my arms and begged me to sing songs with them and play little games. Eventually, they asked me to come with them up the rickety ladder made of wooden planks lashed to long poles and onto the roof. They led me up and out onto a roof that felt alarmingly spongy under my feet. On closer look, I saw that the roof was made of a layer of cracking mud spread over thatch! I could feel the material shifting under my feet. Then Razia’s head popped up over the side and she indicated that I move up from this level of the roof to one of the higher roofs.

There the floor was more solid, though I could still dig my toes into the soft dirt. We set up a picnic dinner spread out on a reed mat. Sunilia and their brother Raju joined us and by flashlight we served each other rice, lentils, eggplant curry, and a “salad” made of chopped onions and tomatoes. After the main course, we sliced up mangos for dessert and the little girls produced a Tupperware of chips. During the meal we talked about how the little girl’s mother, Razia’s sister, Nasreen, had been married at age 16 but that Sunila (age 22) and Razia (age 19) were being allowed to complete their education before getting married. When I asked why, they answered that it had been the strict grandfather who had insisted on Nasreen’s marriage but that he had died before Sunila reached marriageable age. Their father, Unice, is not like the grandfather; he is gentle, kind, and humble. Now that he is the patriarch, he allows his daughters to study and work and isn’t pressuring them to marry. After eating, the little girls wandered away and I was free to spend time with my friends.

I lay on my back, looking at the stars and enjoying the night breeze. The constellations here are the same, Orion’s belt, Big Dipper, Venus, the North Star, but the sky is darker and larger. After a while, I sat up and looked at my friends.

“When you come back to Pakistan?” Razia asked, cuddling her head on my shoulder. I leaned my cheek on her head and sighed.
“I don’t know…”
“You will send me to come to your marriage?” Sunila asked playfully.
“And I do the mandi!” Razia added eagerly. I assured them that I would see them at my wedding, if not before. “You make for me American boy to marry.” Razia said decidedly. At that I started volunteering and describing the various eligible young men in my acquaintance while Razia and Sunila laughed, rejecting some and agreeing to consider others. In this way we happily talked and conspired together under the stars.

“You give to us pictures and we choose.” They eventually said.
“Ok, lets go to Mami Pat’s (Aunty Pat) house and look at pictures.” I agreed. So we slid down the ladder, handed down the dishes, and said goodbye to the family members settling down to sleep outside on the charpais.

“But this is secret,” Razia muttered to me earnestly as we walked up the lain to the Stock’s house. “You no tell Pakistani girl you look for me husband. We not speak of it. Only you go in America and talk.” I responded gaily that I intended to shout it out from the rooftop and pretended to start to do so, at which both Sunila and Razia squealed and laughingly squelched my feigned attempts to proclaim their secret.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to show them any pictures of my friends and family that evening because the internet was too slow. “That ok.” Sunila assured me. “You send in mail to me and I see your family picture.” I said I would. At that point, Sunila wanted to go back to her house to catch her favorite Indian soap opera so she waved goodbye. Before following her, Razia leaned on my shoulder and I put my arm around her warmly. “You my best friend.” She said warmly. Hugging her a little tighter I returned, “You are my best Pakistani friend. “Yes,” she smiled happily, and waved goodbye.