Author: Rizwan Ahmed Memon
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My
sister and I were playing with dolls in the street under our favorite siris
tree, eating candies that tasted like soap, and waiting for our friend Popri.
That day we planned to marry our dolls to hers, but the intense background
noise coming from our house wasn’t festive.
My
father and uncle were arguing. This was nothing new. Their almost daily
shouting and bickering had become part of the ambiance
of our home. Like grizzled veterans who had become inured to the unusual, we
experienced the arguing as an unremarkable part of life.
Growing
up in a combined, dysfunctional family in an underdeveloped village called Akil
in Sindh, Pakistan, life wasn't always so easy, especially having to share the
same home with other families. My sister, brother and I lived with our parents
in our paternal grandparents’ home. We referred to my grandmother as Aman Wadi,
senior mother, and my grandfather as Baba Haji—in Islamic cultures, a man who
has traveled to Mecca for a pilgrimage is called Haji, and Hajani is a word for
a woman who has traveled to Saudi Arabia for the same purpose. My father's brother, Uncle Arbaaz, and his
wife, Aunt Fariha also lived there along with their three sons. Living with
seven other people could be stressful, yet with God's help, we somehow managed.
Our
home was well built; at least it was better than the other houses in the
village. Our house was large with three rooms, a kitchen, a family room, a
little farm, and an Otaq. In Sindhi culture, an Otaq is a particular place in
or outside the house for males to sit and chat. Pinkey and I slept in the family
room since my parents’ room was narrow, so there wasn’t much space. As we were
always under the same roof, everyone knew everyone else’s business. We couldn’t
make a move without being criticized, especially by my grandmother.
As
the matriarch of our family, Aman Wadi was extremely strict. She wasn’t easy to
get along with either, but her traditional sense of style, stemming from her
roots in Iran’s Soomra tribe, and in line with the Makrani family culture,
certainly made her stand out among other women. She would never be caught
without wearing one of her standard Makrani dresses. The geometric shapes and
colors made her stand out within the family unit. Her dark hair added to her
bold look. It often brought out the stern lines and creases on her face
whenever she was angered. Otherwise, her face usually appeared flawless.
Coming
from the same tribe as Aman Wadi, Aunt Fariha also wore the traditional Makrani
dress, but I believe it was her way of showing respect for Aman Wadi's position
within the family. Her attire wasn’t as flashy in regards to patterns or
colors, but she was very noticeable. Mother also wore a traditional dress, but
one that reflected her own Sindhi tribe. That didn't make grandmother happy at
all.
My
mother, whose name was Muskan, once told me that because my father didn’t want
to marry into the Soomra tribe, he went against tradition and married her, an
ethnic Mirbahar of a Sindhi speaking tribal group, people who are also known
for their much darker complexion. My mother’s father was a fisherman. Just to
be known as a fisherman was a reflection of the dark skin color. Because of the
tribal group my mother came from, she, my siblings, and I were darker. Coming
from the Soomra tribe, my grandparents, their children, and Aunt Fariha and her children were all white. My mother always
felt like an outsider in this house.
We
continued playing with our dolls. Popri’s
brother Manan, who was passing by, lingered for a moment and asked, “Why don’t
you come over to our house anymore?”
“Our
grandmother forbids us,” Pinkey said.
Manan
had a parrot perched on his shoulder which repeated Pinkey’s words: “Forbids,
forbids.”
“I’ve made a new swing for Popri. You should come someday to try it out,
if it’s okay with your grandmother,” Popri’s
brother said while leaving.
After
15 minutes, Popri finally arrived at the street corner carrying her doll box.
“Are you ready?”
Hands
on her hips, Pinkey feigned a scowl at Popri. “We’ve been waiting for you!”
Popri
took her female doll out of the box and smiled.
I
squinted at Popri. “Where is your second doll, the groom for my bride?”
She
looked at me and pursed her lips as though she were about to tell me a secret.
Her eyes turned dejected and fixed on the
ground. “Sorry, Timkey. I lost it.”
“Meaning
Timkey’s doll can’t get married today,” Pinkey said, talking to her male doll,
whom she called ‘Hero.’ “And if Popri doesn’t find her groom doll, Timkey’s doll might be alone for the rest of her
life because we don’t have any other male dolls.”
I
grew forlorn and imagined my doll felt miserable,
too. Her groom wouldn’t be there on her wedding day. At the same time, I
thought my doll wasn’t yet ready for some reason. Maybe she wanted to do
something in her life, like me. My doll had long black hair like mine and she
was taller than Pinkey’s male doll and Popri’s female doll. “Your doll seems too
young for Pinkey’s male doll,” I said to Popri.
“Yes,
but I’ve heard my father say to my mother that girls must be married as soon as
possible.”
“Well…”
I wanted to explain my feelings when it came to marriage, but I didn’t know
how.
Just
as we performed the marriage ceremony for our dolls, Azeem, our cousin, came
running toward us. He put his hands on his knees and gasped. “Timkey, Father
and Uncle are yelling at each other again. It sounds bad. I mean, worse than
usual.”
I grabbed my doll and prepared to go home.
Pinkey
looked at me, with a worried look on her face. “Timkey, do you think Uncle and Aman
Wadi will kick us out of the house this time?”
“No.
Baba Haji won’t let them. It’s just that Uncle and Father can’t stop arguing
over their wealth.”
I
was 13, two years older than Pinkey, who was 11, and a year older than our
brother, Waseem, who was 12. My cousin Azeem was just a month younger than me.
His brother, Kareem was the same age as Waseem, and his other brother Naeem was
some weeks younger than Pinkey. These ages were according to the school record,
but I was always doubtful of our ages because we looked older. However, we
didn’t worry about our ages. My father and uncle had gotten married on the same
day; filling the house with children seemed like a competition for them.
Wiping
sweat from his eyebrows with a
handkerchief, Azeem said, “Aman Wadi is furious at your mother.” Pinkey and I
quickened our steps and didn’t reply to Azeem. Entering the house, we saw
another everyday scene: Aman Wadi shouting and scolding my mother.
As
we entered the oppressive, loud, biting presence of Aman Wadi, we ducked our
heads and attempted to make ourselves small and unseen. But with a vision as keen
as a hawk hunting mice in the field, Aman Wadi focused her attention on us and
called out to us. “Hey, hey, wait! You,
black girl! Where did you go? Were you playing in the street again?” Her eyes
focused on me because I was the eldest.
Abject
fear gripped us so tightly that our lips couldn’t utter a word, as if someone
had sewn them together. Our grandmother continued scolding us for a minute or
two. She didn’t forget to mention the Sindhi proverb, “Rann ruly ta bhuly, mard ruly ta khuly.”
It
could be translated as, “If a woman wanders, she will go astray. If a man
wanders, he will gain experience.” This was a proverb she quoted every time we
ventured outside. We were too young to question the gender roles in our society
at that time; the emphasis was on obedience, not on understanding.
Mother
asked us to go to our room. We obeyed her directives and waited for her to tell
us when we could leave.
Pinkey
threw the doll box on the cot. “Aman Wadi doesn’t allow Popri to come to our
home,” she whined. “and she forbids us from going to her home as well.” She
crossed her arms. If we can’t play in the street, then where can we play?”
I
took my embroidery and started working on it, ignoring what Pinkey had uttered.
My brother, Waseem, came and sat beside me. It was March, and spring had
arrived—perfect weather to play in, but unfortunately, we weren’t
allowed to enjoy our childhood.
My
father and uncle kept arguing with my grandfather, and my aunt, Fariha, and my
mother with my grandmother. The house seemed like a battleground from the
depths of hell. Their hatred was like the hatred between rival nations, like
the animosity between many Pakistanis and Indians. Each person had become their
own country and fought viciously to advance their territory. Their words were
like barrages of artillery and their bodies were like menacing walls covered in
barbed wire. No one dared to approach
them and no one escaped the furious blasts of their outbursts.
“Why
don’t you distribute the property, Father? It’s better to live separately than
be together and fight like enemies every day,” my father said, his voice tired.
Baba
Haji made a fist and shook it. “You’ll divide my land and money over my dead
body!”
“Yes,
we need to get that black bitch out of here. This Mirbaharyani has ruined our
peace since the day she came,” added Grandmother, referring to my mother.
I
drew near to the window and kept gazing at them.
Mother
stared at Aman Wadi, but respecting Father’s instructions she didn’t react
much. Father had become a religious fanatic, in contrast to Uncle Arbaaz. In
addition to that, Father followed local customs and was often misguided by the
Imam of the mosque. He’d grown his beard and regarded his parents as God-sent
visionaries. He always apologized to Mother for whatever Grandmother said and
asked Mother not to retaliate. Aman Wadi often criticized Mother for giving
birth to only one boy, while on the other hand,
she praised Aunt Fariha for giving birth to three boys.
Uncle
Arbaaz fumed and grew violent, throwing a chair and turning over the table.
Father walked toward the street to allow the situation to cool, but his tired
face reflected his anger and worry. Father knew Uncle had a temper and would
strike him without a second thought, even if Father was seven years older. During
times like this, Father went to his usual refuge, the mosque, to avoid a
physical fight. The serenity of the mosque helped him ignore
my uncle’s unkind words, keeping peace at home and Grandfather's feelings
unhurt.
My elders’
belligerent attitudes distressed me, fighting over minor issues while ignoring
our education and future. I wished I could sink into the floor and avoid even a
glimpse of those angry faces that seemed to be a threat to my dream of becoming a doctor. I wanted my elders to see the bright
side of life and live in harmony, but I was powerless to influence them.
