Eid Mubarak!

I drove around the block an additional time but I couldn’t see it. I drove leisurely while my eyes shifted from shop to shop, my gaze scrutinized every single shop opposite the new electronic market; the old one had been taken over by cell phone fanatics. New, lost and stolen cell phones, re-packed and re-furbished cell phones, a whole lot of them, every type, make and model you could think of. Obviously, since that’s about all our young Pakistani men have for recreation; computers and cell phones, the slightly privileged lot have the occasional bowling alleys and sheesha lounges and the more daring ones take to paint balling, fishing, off-roading or racing. The women have their television sets and Sidney Sheldon.

Not a single shutter was down but I couldn’t see the shop that always amused me as a kid. I’d giggle shyly at the thought of a lingerie shop amid swarms of four by six kid’s toys and accessory shops. Something was wrong; I could no longer spot the brightly colored women’s undergarments that hung freely outside, the semi-nude mannequins that were tastefully draped with ‘naughty’ frills and suggestive netting, hardly doing the job and doing it right at the same time by the store owner. It puzzled me; the bright red chemise that caught my eye every time I drove by, the sparkling electric blue two-piece suit on a tiny busty plastic woman had disappeared. I had promised my friends pictures of the shop since they did not believe me and now it was gone, it saddened me. I gave up after an hour and a half of Saddar traffic and went home. It was four days to Eid, and I wasn’t really happy being alone this year, manning the fort by myself while my parents and siblings were vacationing. I shrugged it off at the thought of the store owner moving to another location or a change of business.

I bought myself the usual white colored Qameez-Shalwar, with a full collar, no embroidery Qameez. Embroidery wasn’t my thing and the thought of having to pay extra to look less of a man was beyond me. I grimaced as a couple took almost half an hour to pick one gaudy, heavily embroidered Kurta, while I waited for the piece of my size. It was an obnoxious maroon with golden hand-embroidered, loose cuffs and fancy seam. I couldn’t help but curse the man under my breath as he stormed out of the changing room, beaming like he had won a medal of honor for courage; but it was courageous, to wear something like that, I thought. The woman with him I assumed was his wife had picked out a matching suit for their son who, I hadn’t noticed before was busy punching and kicking the lights out of a mannequin by the corner where they had the ‘Pagri’ stand; the parents thought it was normal, of course. I couldn’t stay longer; they had tickled my last nerve. I drove out in my Corolla as I mumbled insults out to people that had stalled outside other such retail outlets. I was assuming too many things; I assumed they were all out to buy more pink, purple, blue, green and black Kurtas with contrasting embroidery and tight fitting shalwars. I killed the engine and stormed into the house, it was almost time for Iftaari, which explains why everyone had been in such a hurry.

Baba called shortly to ‘check’ on me and was relieved to know I was home, he knew without me having to tell him. He knew by the Azaan in the background, it was our special Molvi, the Molvi that loved his microphone, in more ways than one I'd bet. There was always a little post Azaan sermon, Ramadan or not. Not that I understood much of it, the only Arabic I knew was ‘Keefak’, ‘Ahlayn’ and ‘Sharmouta’, Words my half Arab friend had taught me. Dad and I spoke about business, the streets, the traffic and general chit-chat and that was that; it was always that much and no more with Baba. Mama came on the line shortly and blasted me with little tales of their trip to the North of Pakistan, the Gilgit and Hunza belt and how cold it was and how she wished I was there. I smiled when she told me she took pictures of the local version of the KFC Colonel with a thick black moustache and a mustard-yellow suit, it was ‘GFC’, Gilgit Fried Chicken, the Zinger had coleslaw and red chutney; we laughed and it was time to get some coffee for me. Shaved, bathed and smelling like a bottle of everyday cologne, I drove out to the other side of the bridge, I noticed how no one really wanted to beat me to a pulp for overtaking them, how the road side Iftaar tables were being put together and the mess was being cleared up. This wasn’t my Karachi; I shook my head at the ‘temporary transformation’ as I accelerated through the now thickening traffic. Didn’t they have Taraveeh to go to? No post Iftaar holiness? No Naat or Hamd sessions that go on till the next morning? Guess not, they must all be really tired, fasting does that to us.

There was a lot of checking by the police on my way back home, my car was searched, I was frisked and the only way to get some ‘Eidi’ from me was to ask what I was doing out at 1 am. A Sub-Inspector Arif something*, looked like Shaggy from Scooby Doo but his belly showed years of ‘service’, and the rusty Kalashnikov hung lifelessly on his shoulder. After ten minutes of arguing with him, I gave him what was his share from my earnings, One Hundred Pakistani rupees; the equivalent of US Dollars 1 and 25 cents, for being out late. He might have let me off the hook if I were wearing a seat belt. He looked like a teenager that had just found true love when he saw the crisp note I handed out. I didn’t want any more of this, I didn’t want to bother any ‘friends’ so I let him keep it instead of pointing out every other motorist that didn’t have a seat belt on, motorcycles with three to four riders, no helmets or head lights. I let it slip, who had the time anyway?

There were a lot of lights on the road, Main Mohammad Ali Jinnah Road looked like Orchard Street in Singapore at Christmas time, only difference was, the electricity being used was stolen and people like me were paying for it. The cinemas were at least doing well, cars had been parked and double parked, and policemen ensured the safety of which by redirecting traffic, everyone had Eidi to take and Eidi to give.

Sunday was like every other Chandraat afternoon, it will be Eid tomorrow, I thought as my car inched towards Clifton Bridge, the entire city decided to get out and shop that day, why shouldn’t they? It’s the only time of the year my under-privileged nation has something to smile about, apart from the end of every month, salary time. My eyes rolled to the top of my head and my head hit the head rest on the driver’s seat when the Mullah-Party pushed Eid off to the next day, my flat palm smashed the radio shut just before the sermon started, it took three hits and silence. Another day of fasting, another day of collecting ‘Eidi’ by ‘Law Enforcers’, another day of half hearted work by the pious ‘rozaydaars’ and another day of half day banking. I shook my head again and drove on as some impatient ‘rozaydaar’ with a foot long beard honked for the one yard of space I had in front of me; I could bet he smelled of the holy non-alcoholic rose ‘attar’. I inched forward while fumbling through the papers, gas receipts and other useless things I kept in my glove compartment to find a music CD. I had had enough, I couldn’t take anymore or so I thought. I pummeled down the underpass and made a U-turn. My car came to a halt at the corner as my eyes looked for signs of mischief, my restaurant looked great, there were at least ten dozen customers in the open air parking lot for a restaurant my father had sweat for a decade to build up to what it is now, I couldn’t help but smile. I really didn’t mind the embroidered-people now; there were all sorts and sizes of them, all colors of fabrics and all shades by skin color. I didn’t mind that, as long as they were paying. I drove up and had some Iftaari with the staff, ordered some hot green tea and observed silently, the waiters, the customers, chefs and other staff. There were some people waiting to see me, one of them was Zubair, the manager, with a long face and droopy eyes. The toad in his voice box spoke, “Sir, I want permission to go home, I have not slept since Sehri”. My eyes narrowed as my lips stretched into a wicked grin, I could imagine at least one seven letter word forming on my forehead as I said, “You have been working with me for almost four years now, when was the last time I paid you less because it was Ramadan? Or does Allah give you the leverage to work less because you are fasting for Him? You go back and work and I forget we ever had this little conversation.” I sunk into my seat again as he turned around and marched off, back to work, “infidel” he must have thought. Everyone else disbursed without having a word with me.

It wouldn’t stop ringing, it was the sound of a Kalashnikov for my ring tone I had set for Baba, it always meant one of the few things possible, he’s angry about something or he’s angry about something or he’s angry about something or the Baba-special, “Go home now, it’s late”. I finally answered, I didn’t bother looking at the time, I knew what was coming my way. “Baba Jaan, ready for Namaz yet?”, we both called each other Baba for some reason. I mustered a sheepish “Nearly” as my eyes fell on the neatly ironed Qameez Shalwar I had bought the other day. A hot shower and twenty minutes later, I was driving out to meet a lot of people, some of whom only attended Namaz twice a year, on both the Eids, like me. Every one hugged everyone else after Namaz, some smelled of cologne, some of almost nothing and some of ‘rose attar’. It was obvious the non-embroidered Qameez and baggy shalwars were being out numbered. There were people already chewing paan, in the open, without the fear of getting harassed by the cops for not fasting. Ramadan was over, it finally was. No more “Roza lagg raha hai”, no more road blocks for free Iftaar, no more sluggish employees and to my satisfaction, no more foul breath, the type a lot of people claim is the 'scent' of the breath of one that fasts, the holy anesthesia I call it. It can kill you if one of those has to whisper a secret, you really can’t hold your breath long enough and at least I’m not going to dare breathe. We were done with the greetings, done with the lengthy one month long transformation from Pakistani to Muslim. I drove out in my Corolla, I wanted some sleep, I didn’t want to hug any more people, I wanted sleep, no more rose attar or paan for me but I didn’t get any of it, at least not for the rest of the day.

The family was coming back by the evening flight, having left the formalities to me, entertaining people for first the morning tea, then lunch and then two sets of relatives for the afternoon tea. Roads were littered with people in bright clothing, everyone seemed happy, even the motorcycle gang swayed in and out of your way lesser than usual with the heavy load of a wife, the usual three children and a baby. Ramadan was over, a new year was ahead of us; everyone had had greasy food to eat, and lots of it. It was a little awkward to light a cigarette while driving in the day again; a month of ‘abstinence’ had its effects. Finally having delivered Mithai to close relatives and family friends, I wanted to go home and sleep before the 6 o’clock flight landed. Back in Saddar, I saw that shop again, I couldn’t believe my eyes, the busty plastic lady was back, and before sun down on Eid day. A stout bearded man struggled to fix the shoulder strap on one of the higher placed mannequins, he was back in business. I pulled to a side and walked to the shopkeeper, grinning almost throughout, there was a strong smell of ‘paan’ and droplets of which had stained the man’s fancy green Kurta, you don’t have to be a genius to guess, it too was heavily embroidered. I finally spoke “Were you traveling?” He looked at me as though I had asked him a grave secret or to commit a crime, a sin would be a better word in our little Metropolis. He growled, “We don’t do this in Ramadan, what do you want?” I shook my head and told him I had a visitor from out of town looking to buy some of his ‘goods’ in bulk and I will return with him sometime. My drive home was not the quickest but I was really not irritated anymore, still grinning, holding myself. Almost inside the house, I burst out in to laughter, a well called for laughter. My dilemma was finally over; I had found the true Muslim, the real Pakistani and the only thing that could make a Karachiite sleep at night without a bargain, without some sort of money-related gain.

Pakistan Zindabad!