It’s almost a requirement of a trip to any South Asian country that one visit the cloth markets. Until very recently, there were no shops where a shopper could simply choose a style and size and pick an outfit, ready to wear. The traditional and, in my opinion, most fun way to do it, is to start from scratch and visit one of these havens of vibrant color and texture, the cloth shop.

My mother and I enter China Market in Rawalpindi, Pakistan early in the morning, as soon as the shopkeepers are opening their gates. The shopkeepers are rather superstitious and believe it is bad luck to let the first customer of the day walk away empty-handed; thus, they are willing to give us better deals as we haggle on the price of cloth.

As we walk by his shop, this young man calls to us. “Bari baaji! Choti baaji! Ayai na!” “Little sister! Big sister! Won’t you please come in?” As we enter and he invites us to sit, I can tell by his lyrical accent that he’s actually Afghani, perhaps a refugee that came to Pakistan a long time ago. As he points out his varied wares, I can’t help but feel transported back to a time of Mughal princes and princesses dressed in their luxurious, colorful costumes.

Though he can probably understand the kind of cloth we are looking for, he is determined to show us everything he can, hoping something else will catch our eyes as well. He unrolls bolt after bolt of beautiful fabric, inviting us to feel the texture, look closely at the hand-embroidered flowers and sequins in a pattern that he had specially created, just for his shop. I capture him just as he unrolls a bolt of purple “glass georgette,” so named because of its interspersed patterns of smooth satin on thinner fabric. Through the opaque fabric is visible the shopkeeper’s assistant, who wanted to bring good fortune to the business by starting his day with a reading of the Holy Qur’aan.

The shopkeeper’s tactic worked; my mother and I bought more than we had planned. As he folds and packs the cuts of fabric, he orders us cold sodas and asks that we remember him in our prayers. We are welcome at his shop anytime, he says, as a sister would be for her brother.

I’ve discovered a shelf of old journals of mine and have started reading entries from them. I found this entry written on the back of an envelope, stuffed into an old journal. I remember writing this about seven or eight years ago during a visit to Pakistan. Here it is, modified a bit. More Pakistan pictures from this year’s trip here.

Sure, you’ve ridden in a taxi, a bus, or a metro to get from place to place in a city. But riding in a rikshaw is something that these modes of transportation can never compare to.

A rikshaw is somewhat of a cross between a mail truck and a tricycle and is one of the main modes of cheap transportation in South Asia. A rikshaw is a three-wheeled motorized vehicle with barely any windows or doors, just a handlebar to grab onto when you’re about to fall out. The minimalistic structure is covered with thin blue metal and brightly painted with poetry and cultural decals. The motorized version has been updated from the “human rikshaws” that were outlawed on humanitarian grounds from the streets. (Read “City of Joy” for a story of a poor rikshaw driver in Calcutta. Absolutely phenomenal book)

Riding in a rikshaw is an….interesting (read: life threatening) experience without which a trip to South Asia cannot be complete.

The driver sits in the front seat steering the car with…no, not a steering wheel…come on, get serious…the handlebars of a motorcycle. The back has a long seat that by American standards can fit two or three. But, if you’re desi, you know a rikshaw can easily fit yourself, your parents, your four siblings, your cousin, and any shopping you’ve done for the day. And maybe your goat.

Furthermore, imagine the road conditions. In America, we complain about bad drivers and traffic….but you ain’t seen *nuthin* till you’ve driven the streets of Lahore or Rawalpindi. Potholes galore and street construction without any detours. People walking and cutting around racing traffic. Motorcycles, bikes with seven people on them, buses with people hanging off of the roof, cars, trucks, rikshaws, “khoota gari” (literally: Donkey car – carts pulled by donkeys or horses). Cows, goats, sheep, chickens, crows. Street vendors and movable cart vendors (ice cream, corn). Dust. Smoke. Heat. Bugs.

There are street lights, stop signs, lane demarcations painted onto the roads. But just because these things are there doesn’t mean you have to follow them. They’re like the Pirate’s Code….more like “guidelines” than actual rules (tip of the hat to Captain Barbossa).

There is absolutely no reason to signal and tell anyone which way you want to turn. Just go! You can drive in the middle of two lanes, on the shoulder, or maneuver your way between everything when there isn’t even room for a mosquito to squeeze through. (This latter option is, amazingly, the most common) Plus, if you do get pulled over by a cop, just wet his palms with a little cash and you’ll be on your way in no time.

Add all this to the fact that everyone is constantly in a hurry because they have somewhere absolutely essential to be….like a tea break or to the cricket grounds or home to eat lunch. Hurry, of course, means horns. While in America, short beeps (even in the north) mean “Hey, watch where you’re going!” or “Scuze me, the light’s green. Mind moving?”

In Pakistan, honking your car horn means “YAAR, MOVE OUT OF THE WAY! I’M COMIN’ THROUGH!” It’s more like a final warning to save your own life.

Oh dear, have I put you off from visiting? Don’t worry! It’s all a beautiful symphony of organized chaos because everyone knows exactly where they’re going. If you do get stuck or frustrated, just sit back and listen to all the different kinds of horns people have installed into their car or truck. Baby’s laugh, wolf whistle, pig’s squeal, etc.

If the US Secret Service wants to train its forces for defensive driving, they should send them to Pakistan’s crowded streets. Anyone who can last a week there can handle any driving situation anywhere.

Her small, curved white petals must surely be the form a pearl would take if it could choose to blossom into a flower. And if sounds could ever become scents, her sweet, soulful aroma would certainly be the scent of a sitar.

The jasmine flower.

These flowers are iconic in Pakistani culture. They’re in every flower garden, in the imagery of innumerable ghazals, and are threaded into a bride’s hair on her wedding day. Their small stems have a natural hole that makes it easy to thread them onto string. Every time you stop at a traffic signal in Pakistan, a man will come to your window selling necklaces and bracelets of pearly jasmine buds. And many an afternoon has blended into evening sharing stories over sweet cups of jasmine green tea.

Their scent is absolutely legendary. Grandmothers will go outside after fajr, pick the morning blossoms and place them in a bowl of water in the center of the room (reserving two blossoms to wear as earrings, of course). That one small bowl of jasmine flowers will perfume the whole room with a delicate yet strong scent for two days.

The awe-inspiring scent even inspired a local religious legend; the popular claim is that this soft, sweet scent must be what the Prophet Muhammad (S) smelled like. Many Muslims here will automatically start to recite the Salawaat, or blessings on the Prophet, when they smell the fragrance of the jasmine blossoms.

Allahumma salli ‘ala sayyidina Muhammad….

Jasmine blossoms are enshrined in my earliest childhood memories of visiting my grandmother in Pakistan. My Guddo Phuppo, may Allah grant her Jannah, was crippled by polio at an early age, making it extremely difficult for her to get around by herself. But without fail, every morning, she’d wake up early and make her way to the courtyard using her support stool. She’d pick the most beautiful and most fragrant kaliyaan from the garden and, when I woke up, she’d come into my room. Smiling from ear to ear with a jasmine blossom earring in each ear, she’d hold up a garland of kaliyaan. “Look what I made for you!” she’d say as she put the delicate necklace on me. “Let’s go play Luddo!” May Allah perfume her grave with the fragrance of Jannah the way she perfumed my family with her love, her smiles, and her jasmine necklaces. Ameen.

Translations

* Kalee = A jasmine flower. Kaliyaan (pl)
* Guddo Phuppo = Phuppo means “aunt,” specifically your father’s sister. Guddo was my aunt’s nickname; it means doll.
* Luddo = Parcheesi. My Guddo Phuppo’s favorite game.

More flower pictures here.

My grandmother’s sisters would leave pieces of last night’s leftover roti out in the front courtyard for him. Sometimes they’d leave some seeds or fruit. He’d come every evening at the same time and pick at the food. But that’s not why he came.

He came for her.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The emerald-green curve of her wings, the turquoise-blue ribbon of her tail feathers, the orange-red coral of her beak. It’s like she was made of jewels and gems. And her sweet voice – it was the wine that intoxicated him day after day, calling him back to that same place.

Every day, he came to sit on her white metal cage. He’d wheedle and whistle through the bars, calling her, singing to her, loving her. He’d ruffle his feathers, spread out his green wings to show her how handsome and strong he was, what a worthy husband he’d make. And in response, she’d sing for him too, with that wine-like voice.

They’d click beaks, him reaching down into her cage, her stretching up through the bars. He’d fly away and come back again the next evening, day after day.

One day, she got sick. In a few days, she died. They buried her in the garden. But he came back, every evening at the same time, whistling at her empty cage, hoping she’d come back, hoping she was just hiding.

He was a bird of freedom, living in the wild, flying at will from tree to tree. She was a pampered housepet, a thing of beauty to be enjoyed. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. But they still loved…with songs and flutters, caged kisses and dreams.

Eventually he stopped coming when his heart finally realized his raani wasn’t coming back.

True story about the totaa who came to visit my grandmothers’ sisters’ totee every day.

Totaa – a male parrot. this kind is found wild in the Indian subcontinent and are caught and sold as pets.
Totee – a female parrot
Raani – Queen

I don’t know his name. We’ve always just called him Mochi Saab. He’s a simple, honorable man who sets up his cobbler shop at the end of the street my late grandfather’s house is on. Mochi Saab sits half-squatting on a little wooden stool, surrounded by his tools. He repairs and polishes shoes, mends ripped bags and purses, and sells the leather shoes he’s made himself, the ones that are hanging on racks that he’s hammered into the concrete wall behind him. It never costs much, and he always throws in some smiles and political commentary for free.

But the best part is, he remembers us — no — expects us. The first time my dad and I stop by after we arrive in Pakistan, his tanned, wrinkled but still youthful face erupts into a smile that shines up to his bright eyes.

It’s summer now, he says. I knew you would come soon.

His speech is lyrical and beautiful. He speaks in Urdu, but it’s heavily accented by his Pashtun tongue. It’s like music and I love it. I go just to hear him talk. He always smiles sweetly at me, saying “Salaam baji, how are you?” But Mochi Saab never looks up into my eyes, following the old chivalrous traditions of politeness to women.

For half the year, the hot months, Mochi Saab manages the shop. Then he changes shifts with his brother and goes back home to his village. He’s always happy to go home. The journey ahead is long, but worth it. First he goes by bus, then by a public wagon he can just jump onto. Then he hires a horse cart to take him as close as possible to his village. When the horse cart can go no further, he has to walk the rest of the way home.

There’s only one problem. Darkness has fallen. He’s got another few miles to go on foot. And he’s carrying six months of profit in his pocket.

Aren’t you scared, Mochi Saab, my dad asks. Aren’t there a lot of dakoo?

Of course I’m scared of getting robbed! That place is notorious! Mochi Saab replies.

So what do you do?

Easy! I light up a charss cigarette! Then I feel like there’s ten more men walking with me and I’m not scared at all!

True story.

Mochi – a cobbler and leatherworker
Dakoo – Robber
Charss – Opium. Causes hallucinations

had she ever encountered a scout, her life would have been very different. her high cheekbones and cat eyes would have graced the covers of Vogue and Glamour. Her lean figure and long legs would have dominated every catwalk in Europe. but here, she lived in a swish-swishing world of dust. day after day, she crouched her perfect legs like a toad. her green ember eyes had grown accustomed to her life.

the dust made her nose stuffy, her throat dry, and her eyes water, she told herself that night. especially with the sand-winds of the hot pakistani summers. she turned to her side, pulling her dupatta closer (it doubled as a blanket at night). it was just the dust, she thought as she wiped a trail from the corner of her eye. just the dust. just the dust.

she dreamt of rivers and rain

i might be blogging a series of vignettes inspired by where i am right now (pakistan). a jamadarni is a woman who is hired to clean your house in pakistan. most people have one; it’s not a status symbol. they sweep the dust off of the floors, collect trash, clean the bathroom, etc. all of them are beautiful.