Asha

I had very few specific expectations when I arrived in Pakistan but I did hope to attend a village wedding so that I could experience Pakistani dancing. As time went by in Pakistan, I visited villages but only experienced funeral rites without celebratory dancing. When I mentioned my hopes to Pat, she explained to me that summer is not wedding season in the Sindh region. Paul suggested I pray that somebody gives birth to a son; that would be the most likely way to experience a celebration. Thus, whenever I’ve thought of it over the past seven weeks, I have been hoping that God will send us a baby.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of sitting in on one of the training days for the Village Outreach Project evangelists. At first I sat with the wives and listened without comprehension as a Bible story was told in Urdu. After lunch I joined the evangelists for their session. I was seated next to the first and only female member of the evangelist team. Ratna, an aging but vigorous woman, enthusiastically participated with the 28 other (male) evangelists as they discussed the scripture, told testimonies, and reported prayer requests.

Ratna told us all how her daughter had recently given birth to a miracle baby. Ratna’s daughter has a heart condition that couldn’t be corrected with surgery because of her pregnancy. Because of this, all the doctors expected her to die in childbirth. In fact, no hospital would allow her to give birth there for fear that her family would sue when the girl died. Ratna eventually took her pregnant daughter home saying, “God is the great physician; He can take care of my daughter if it is his will.” Finally, a local hospital allowed the girl to come there for the birth on the condition that she signed a form saying she was giving birth against medical advice. By the grace of the Great Physician, the birth was entirely normal and the baby was born unusually healthy.

There was one catch; the child was a girl. After seven daughters this baby had been the family’s last hope for a son. While the mother was in the hospital recovering from labor and from a hysterectomy to prevent further children, she feared to tell her husband about the gender of the baby. After eight daughters and no sons, many men in Pakistan would be ready to divorce their wives or to hope that she would die in childbirth so they would be free to remarry. In tears for fear that he would never love her again, Ratna’s daughter handed her husband their last child. His response? To host a celebration thanking God for sparing the life of the mother and to make a statement to the Hindu community that God loves baby girls as much as baby boys. In this way, God answered my prayers to let me witness a village celebration, a Satti, a baby naming ceremony.

Two days before leaving the country, I found myself trying on brightly colored skirts and headdresses in preparation for attending the event that I had hoped for so long. The first several outfits I tried on were too small in one respect or another or were of the wrong tribe. Eventually I had to borrow a generic, shiny, yellow tribal blouse from one of the Stocks’ tribal neighbors, match it to one of Pat’s yellow-flowered, magenta skirt, and to fudge on the length of the magenta headdress. This problem solved, I enjoyed sweeping around the house to make the sea of skirt swish while Paul braided Jodie’s hair and Pat urged Joel to take a shower before putting on his best shalwar chamise.

We left only an hour so late for the two hour drive to the village. I sat in the front seat, my hand out the window, drinking in the sight of the country side. I was all too aware that this was my last village visit, one of the last car trips I would experience in the crazy, beautiful, dusty, vibrant, chaotic, exotic land I had come to love. While I watched the road roll by, Pat read aloud from The Hobbit and we enjoyed time together as a family. We arrived to the place where we had to leave the car and continue on foot just as dusk fell. We were met by smiling villagers who escorted us past fields of towering sugar cane, muddy lanes, and shadowy buildings to the heart of the village.

After the customarily joyful greetings and hearty congratulations to everyone in the village, the ceremony got underway right away. It turned out that though the village had been waiting for us, it was traditional to complete the naming ceremony before sunset. While Ratna, the esteemed grandmother, prepared a manger-esk pedestal for the baby, other family members asked us our input on what to name the baby girl. I was surprised that the family hadn’t chosen a name in the 20 days since the baby was born. They wanted our input first. Pat wanted a name that would indicate how valued the baby was, something that would translate into “Gift”, but she couldn’t think of any names like that in their language.

“How about Hope?” I suggested. “What is their word for hope?”

“Asha…” Paul responded meditatively.

“That sounds a little like they were hoping that she was a boy.” Pat added hesitantly. But a village member had already heard the suggestion and was enthusiastically repeating the name to other villagers. It turned out that Asha fit phonetic theme that the family used for their names. As the news of the name spread throughout the village with growing excitement, Pat turned to me. “How does it feel to know that you have named a baby? She will have this with her for her whole life.” I had asked God for a baby and He had personally delivered one that even doctors didn’t expect to live. Now I had also been allowed to give the child the first building block of her identity. I sat silently as the significance of it sunk in. As I sat still, I felt my heart grow very warm and full to overflowing.

Without waiting for me to process my contribution to the occasion, the ceremony began. Ratna sat at the head of the baby laid on the pedestal and chanted blessings over Asha while an aunt scooped celebratory sweet wheat kernels and chickpeas onto large leaves to be distributed to the guests. Soon significant women in the tribe started approaching the foot of the baby, tucking money into the cloth under the child, and scattering grain over her after cracking their knuckles on their own foreheads in blessing. Bashfully, I allowed myself to be pushed to the front where I clumsily imitated the motions of the other woman while the crowd laughed good-naturedly. After a while, Ratna finished her declarations over the baby and the crowd began to disperse.

Pat helped me to my feet and led me into the main hut; before I knew what was happening, someone had placed in my arms the bundle of swaddling clothes that was baby Asha. I was transfixed by her beautiful big eyes, her soft dark hair, and her small button nose. My baby. While people bustled around us I began to sing over her gently every hope I could have for her. I repeated over and over her name in the context of hoped for favor with God and man, strength of character, life success and every other blessing I could think of to hope for her. I only stopped when I was called to bring the baby over to be in a photo with her family. I held Asha there surrounded by her seven sisters, her young mother, her kind father; someone snapped pictures while others, aunts, friends, and even the Stocks took turns crowding into the picture frame. But for me, the only thing that mattered was the baby in my arms. Eventually someone took the baby from me. I sat down in a corner to scribble down the song I had poured out over Asha. Later I gave the poem to Paul to keep for Asha until she was old enough to understand that someone had loved her and prayed this hope for her on her naming day.

The rest of the evening went by around me as a pleasant whir of activity. We ate dinner of curry that once would have been unbearably spicy for me. I sat at the front of the company of woman and sang along to once foreign Urdu praise songs and watched eagerly as Paul sprinkled baptismal water over the heads of eight to ten children and women. As the baptisms finished and people began to prepare chai, I was growing sleepy. It was after 11:00 as I fell under the spell of the warm evening, the good food, and the warm contentment that had filled me since holding Asha. I lay down on the soft dirt floor of the hut and lazily watched the colorful forms flitting around in the dark village center.

Then I remembered, I hadn’t done any dancing yet! A young man soon pulled out a large drum and positioned himself in the center of the courtyard. As he began to beat a brisk tempo, Paul led about ten other men in a song about parenthood that we had learned earlier and the men began to dance. I watched eagerly, no longer tempted to sleep. Paul led the men in an acrobatic circle dance that involved sudden leaps in the air, flailing arms, and low hops along the ground. Pretty soon Ratna and Pat joined the circle of men. They maintained a steady pattern of sidesteps, clapping with the beat of their movements. The steps were simple and didn’t vary so I soon joined them.

At first I had to think carefully to not get out of sync with the other women. But pretty quickly I was able to sing along and watch the antics of the men while staying on beat. As the novelty wore off and the night wore on, the steady movements round the circle became almost hypnotic. Eventually I retired to watch from the sidelines. I watched the colorful skirts swishing past in time to the drum until the lateness of the hour overcame me. The last thing I remember is someone gently tucking a cloth under my feet, which were dangling off the blanket spread on the smooth hut floor, to protect me from the ants crawling around in the dirt. Thus cared for and content, I drifted off to sleep, grateful for having experienced a celebration and also aware that I had received so much more than I had hoped for.

Believer's Baptism

I woke up today, June 2nd, as though it were my first day in Murree. I was still insecure about my place and shy about mixing, but at least I felt awake and alert, able to smile and think clearly. The first order of business was to have breakfast. Since we were too late to have breakfast with the high school boys at their dorm (walking distance from our cabin) we walked down to the town at the base of the hill. All five of us, (Mr.S, Mrs.S, Joel, Jodie and I,) shuffled into a tiny café to order fried eggs, fried bread, and chai. I was acutely aware that, other than Pat and I, the café was patronized only by men who were staring at us subtly. I felt better when it turned out that our booth was equipped with curtains to shield ladies from indiscreet glances.

After the meal, we were picked up by a missionary couple who offered to drive us up to the school. It was very challenging to maneuver the car out of the town and up beyond the military barricade surrounding the school. People were milling around in the streets which were otherwise filled with parked cars. I found out from Pat that people were uneasy because the demolition that had been clearing one side of the street was about to take down the final building, a mosque. It turns out now, later in the day, that people are protesting by burning tires in the road and have cut the lines which provide internet to the school.

When we did manage to get up the steeply winding road to the school, I enjoyed a quiet morning of much needed reflection. I listened to worship music on my i-pod and finally took time to write in my journal. Because I had been saving my sights and experiences to share with you, I hadn’t journalled at all since leaving the country. I found great relief in writing about my surroundings, my immediate feelings, the bird calls that I’d noticed etc. without having to feel that I was composing for an audience. After journaling in the sun for a while, I moved inside the church where students were practicing music and read the book Alessandro lent me, “Biblical Inner Healing”. By the time lunch came around I was thoroughly refreshed.

Today at Murree there was only one scheduled event. I had the distinct pleasure of attending the baptism of eight students. We sat outside and sang songs and heard a message about the events that lead up to the baptism of the Ethiopian by Philip the Evangelist. But the really moving part of the ceremony was when each student solemnly declared that they believed that Jesus was the son of God, that he had died for their sins and that they dedicated their lives to him; then each student briefly told their testimony. After this, the child’s mother prayed for them and the child’s father baptized them in water while the priest held the microphone. It was very moving to see the young people so earnestly explaining why they wanted to be baptized and to see their parents ministering to them. I wondered how these children, raised in missionary families that place such an emphasis on Christianity and conversion, had gotten to the age of 10 or 12 without being baptized.

It made me think about my own infant baptism. I know I was baptized, though I don’t remember it. And I know that I am Christ’s own, though I have never officially declared it with a believer’s baptism. I listened as the children answered “yes” with varying degrees of vigor to the priest’s questions: Do you believe with your heart that Jesus is the son of God? Do you feel assured that he has washed away your sins? Do you desire to live for him forever? One boy answered, “pretty much” and the priest laughed, replying, “well that is a step forward”. I wondered what I would be able to respond in all honesty to these questions. Do I believe with ALL my heart that Jesus exists as the son of God? Do I feel ASSURED that my sins are washed away? I know at least that I do desire to serve him forever, whoever he is.

Then I realized that baptism is not the same thing as salvation or conversion. Baptism is a public commitment. It is a declaration of decision and allegiance. Just as the sacrament of marriage is not synonymous with being in love, it is the public demonstration and formation of commitment to this relationship, wherever it may lead or whatever it may involve. Though I was baptized into the church as an infant and have quietly grown in my relationship with God the Father, Christ the Son, and the active Spirit, the day may come when I also wish to publicly and officially declare with a believer’s baptism my allegiance once and for all, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death and beyond.

Fun in the sun cleaning clothes by hand

Today (June 18) I washed clothes in the local manner with my children friends from the hostel. I was having my quiet time when I heard a knock on the door of my room. It was Martha, the most beguiling of the group of girls who follows me around. “You with Rani walking?” She asked with the irresistible cock of the head that people here use so often. While waiting my answer she wore her characteristic look of gentle bewilderment. What she meant was, “Would you like to go on a walk with Rani and me?” But it came across as, “What are you doing in here reading? I thought you were going to take a walk with us!” When I tried to explain that I was reading the Bible, even pronouncing Bible in the Urdu way, she continued to stare at me with the same look of confusion until I sighed, put the book down and took her hand, signaling that she could lead me wherever she wanted.

It turned out that it was actually Shanti, Rani’s little sister, who wanted to walk with me. She wanted to go up onto the roof of the hostel to watch Martha and Rani washing clothes. But I was so intrigued by their chore that I insisted on going down to watch more closely. I maneuvered Shanti over to the pavilion where Rani was enthusiastically pumping water from an iron spout into a blue plastic tub. I watched as Rani squatted, submerged five or six pieces of clothing in the water, pulled one out, slapped it on the hot concrete and started vigorously scrubbing the cloth with a yellow bar of soap. After a few minutes of lathering, Rani threw the soap aside and commenced scrubbing the cloth with a stiff brush. After brushing, Rani kneaded the cloth like bread dough and then began to thwack it with a wooden club. After five or six hefty blows, she pushed the cloth aside and pulled out another item of clothing.

At this point, I squatted down beside her in the blazing sun and pulled out a sopping pair of pants to work on myself. “You want to wash the cloth?” She asked, incredulous. When I nodded and began furiously lathering, Shanti gave up on our walk and pushed a brick over for me to sit on while squatting. It was hot work and I was glad that water was involved. I found that Rani made the process look much easier than it really was. The soap slipped out of my grasp, the cloth bunched in the wrong places, and my thwacks with the club didn’t make the same juicy resonant sound that Rani’s did. Pretty soon I was stiffly shifting my position and trying to ease my aching arms.

After cleaning all the clothes, we had a pile of sudsy laundry. We dumped it back in the plastic tub and hauled it over to the pump. There I pumped while Rani rinsed, squeezed out excess water, and handed the item to Shanti to put on the clothes line. After all the clothes had been rinsed, Rani and Shanti took turns rinsing themselves off under the water. While they were doing this, I turned to help Martha who had just begun her family’s load without the help of sisters. Sopping wet, Rani and Shanti joined me and the four of us made short work of Martha’s laundry.

With the work done, the girls were all free to play and together we went up onto the roof to enjoy the breeze while the clothing dried in the sun.

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.

Receptivity to Christianity and about burqas

A friend of mine from the states responded to my request for questions with a string of interesting ones for me to answer. Here are her questions and my responses.

“How do people react to the fact that the Stocks are Christians? Do they even know, mostly? You said that Paul prayed at the end of the visit with Golden, but that was in a place where you said people worship other gods every day... did those listening receive it, act like they didn't like it, seem curious, have no idea what was going on, or what? Are non-Christians in Pakistan generally anti-Christian, or more open like in the U.S.?”

Hindus tend to be pretty tolerant (Golden and most of the people the Stocks work with are Hindu.) Hindus have a "cover all your bases" policy and are often happy to have Christian's pray for them and worship in their villages. Some are very friendly and worship our God themselves on a regular basis. What they don't like is the Christian concept of "one true God". Missionaries have to develop relationships with them, and hopefully demonstrate some of the power of Christianity, before they are open to offending their own gods by exclusively worshiping the Christian God.

I haven't had much interaction with Muslims here. Most of the people in the towns and cities, the ones who aren't wearing tribal clothes, are Muslim. They stare at us sometimes, because we are western, but don't seem particularly hostile to our Christianity. There are many churches here, three close to our house, though there are many more mosques. Christianity isn't underground here and seems to be considered a legitimate option by the Muslim majority. But, as I've said, the Stocks work almost entirely with Hindus, so I don't know first hand what it is like to share the gospel with Muslims.

Pat adds that Muslims are very interested in religious conversations. Muslims here are offended by Godless, hedonistic America but respect God-fearing Christians and respect the development work missionaries are trying to do. As opposed to feeling hostile, they pity Christians for not having the full revelation and for following such a minor prophet as Jesus Christ. Pat says that her approach with Muslims is to encourage them to read the Bible for themselves. She reminds them that the Quran actually proscribes reading the Bible and that the Bible supplies many details about our prophet that are not included in the Quran. The scriptures speak for themselves, she told me, if they would just read it.

It seems to me, in a way, that Pakistanis are MORE open to Christianity than in the US. Pakistan is a deeply religious nation. All people believe that god(s) exist, are powerful and important. People are eager to know your understanding of the truth and to put it to test in real life. There isn't a scorn for Christians as ignorant and backward here. Christians often bring education, compassion, and medicine. The big barrier is the fact that, since religion is so very ingrained in the cultural practices of these people, to change your religion affects every part of your life. That is one reason why many people practice Christianity but do not make a public confession of faith.

“Also, do women wear burqas there? Do you ever?”

Many women wear burqas but so far I have not. When walking around the bazaar, I’ve seen a great variety of women’s clothing from fashionable shalwar chamises with head scarf on or off, to various tribal outfits, to burkas. It seems to be up to you what you want to wear. Many older women wear the burqas, perhaps because they're tired of dealing with the extra vigilance you need when you wear more attention-getting clothes. Burqas give you a comfortable anonymity which lets your go about your business in peace. Younger or less traditional women can choose to work the more fashionable alternatives the way American women can choose to wear flashy advertisement-style clothes if they think they can pull it off. It’s up to you.

Only children or men, however, wear western style pants and shirts. It would be considered pretty immodest for a woman, sort of like a girl showing mid-drift, cleavage, and wearing heavy makeup would look in the US. Still, my friend Lily told me that she and her city friends in Hyderabad sometimes wear pants and shirt and that it is not scandalous. In the picture she showed me, the clothes were so shapeless that she and her friends really looked like boys.

For me, I wear a tribal outfit if going to a tribal worship service or funeral. The rest of the time, I wear loose shalwar chamises, the cultural equivalent of loose jeans and a loose t-shirt, moderate and accepted. I keep my head scarf strictly over my head when in public or when praying, a gesture of being conservative and not interested in attention. When with friends or at Christian events, my scarf stays draped across my shoulders like a backwards shawl. Around the house, with the children and the household help, neither Pat nor I feel the need to wear the scarf at all. I do not feel any angst to wear western clothes while here. The shalwar chamises come in every color and design, are comfortable for the temperature, and do not reveal the flaws in my figure.

Thanks for the questions, Annie!

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.

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!