Touch

A mist-covered morning finally came. I found myself in a huge field full of figures dressed in white. I am sitting in stiff, starched white cloths in the compound of the holy mosque. Snippets of the speech delivered by the choleric Maulana (cleric) float around my head:

"Today is a sacred day...Abraham's faith and love of god was tested when the Almighty asked him to sacrifice Ishmael (his son through his maid Hajjar) in the way of Allah".

Right before Abraham slit his nine-year-old son’s throat - Satan tried to dissuade Abraham by appealing to his reason and humanity. In the end Abraham followed Allah's orders. Abraham also abandoned his son (and his mother the concubine Hajjar) to Allah's mercy in the deserts of Arabia giving rise to the Arab race.

But the attempted sacrifice of Ishmael gave rise to "Bakra Eid". From that day "all shalt sacrifice animals to commemorate this ultimate obedience to god". After the sacrifice the believers go congregate around a phallic symbol to stone Satan for attempting to reason with Abraham.

This ritual became a festival and was named Eid. Eid symbolizes a worshipper’s blind surrender to god ("we hear and obey"), an obedient son’s ultimate act of unquestioning devotion to his father’s will – and death for millions of helpless animals around the globe.

"... Even looking at a woman is zina (adultery) of the eyes ...even

thinking about sin is a sin...and it is better to gouge out your eyes and pluck out your brain than to have them burn in the furnaces of hell.".

The Khutba (sermon) had apparently moved to the most pressing social

issues plaguing the third world: "looking at women". Abbu Jan looks at me to

ensure I am paying attention and not playing with my skullcap again.

"... aaand on the day of Judgement God will hold you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect, over the fire ..." my brow furrows as I try hard to pretend concentration.

"...And if a child is disobedient and sinful... the little child will be placed in a red-hot oven. Heeear! How it screams to come out...It staamps its little feet on the floor... and begs for mercy ... that is when the Almighty will say 'sinner, did I not give you an entire lifetime to atone for your sins... but you rebelled then and now you selfishly seek mercy.'"

Abbu Jan looks at the Imam (cleric) gratefully. I become visibly uncomfortable. I slowly begin to lower my hat in order to transform it into a docking station for airplanes - then I suspend all further construction in light of Abbu's eye-popping glare.

After the Eid prayers all the men hugged and embraced three times. In the far corner I see veiled women folding into each other. This is a liberal mosque where even women were allowed to pray - but always apart from the men.

I wish I was young and unmanageable enough to be eligible for the women's compound. I missed hearts willing to absorb my unmanageable energy. I missed the cool silk cloths brushing against my cheek. I missed peeing on the floor of the holy mosque. I missed resting my head in my mother's lap but most of all I missed the hugs. I missed feeling the hardness or softness of women's breasts.

That Eid I am handed Eidy (money). For a moment I dance the social dance of

"thank you but my parents feed and treat me well". The giver insists. Abbu (father) protests. The giver insists. The son looks at Abbu Jan for approval. Abbu gives a fatalistic what-can-we-do-but-gratefully-accept-nod. Son hesitantly take the money with an ever grateful bow.

"You shouldn't have. You will spoil him with all your gifts"

"Aray hamaray saath kya takalluf." (why all the formality with us?)

I know the money is going to end up in my mother's "bank". I never thought of keeping it to myself since I never bought anything without permission. There was a time when I used to ask permission before taking a potty. Until one day my parents started conditioning us to potty independently.

On that day of Eid I witnessed my first animal "sacrifice". It is a cherished ritual practiced by a billion Muslims all over the world. The animal of choice is usually a calf. Sometimes a calf is chosen because it has enough meat to feed an entire family of twenty for days until their piss comes out hard and yellow. At other times a calf is chosen to piss off our polytheistic, vegetarian, cow-worshipping Hindu neighbors.

Our other neighbors had already slaughtered their small goat (they must have

been poorer this year or maybe they just did not love god as much). The goat's bloody entrails were transmitting their noxious fumes from across the street.

I looked wistfully at my calf. She is not totally oblivious to the smell of blood in the air. By this time entire countries were reeking of animal remains.

My calf is brown to the point of being orange. She would potty a little too independently. My calf is crying and flitting away flies with its tail. I plotted to elope with her, I plotted to hide all the ugly, heavy knives and those bigger, broader even more menacing knives.

They were taking away my calf now. I ran after her with the rest of the children holding onto the legs of the men frantically trying to convince our elders of the advantages of alternate food sources. The women have already disappeared into the house, with the pretext of preparing the kitchen for the packaging of the meat. The meat is supposed to go to the poor but what usually ended up as their lot is what no one else would eat.

The men are now wrapping chords around the feet of my calf as she stands defiantly on the "altar". The altar is our grease-stained garage. My senses would dull over many more such altars for I was one sacrifice that never died.

The men surround her.

Her feet are encircled with rope. Then the noose is suddenly tightened as everyone pushes and knocking her legs out from under her, the men overpower her. She tries to rise again but several men strain to keep her down.

Abbu Jan approaches her with a sharpened knife. He has been thoroughly indoctrinated by the more experienced slaughterers. He approaches with the anxiety of a virgin.

Amidst instructions (sometimes contradictory) he stabs the throat, running the knife back and forth to deepen the cut.

The air erupts with cries of the children. I hear the struggling moans of my calf trying to breathe through its amputated throat. My father calmly chants "Bismillah al Rahman al Raheem (In the name of Allah the Beneficent the Merciful)".

Hot blood spurts and sprays my father's stiff white shirt. For a moment, it looks like he would withdraw but he does not. He had missed the jugular vein by a mile. You cannot really have an Islamic sacrifice until all the blood has drained through the jugular vein and the carotid arteries.

The knife plunges into her throat again. He digs around the flesh looking for the vein but in vain. The elders were raining their admonishments and several slaughterers took it upon themselves to further shred the throat in search of the elusive vein.

The men are straining to control the frantic kicking and twitching of the animal. The children are becoming hysterical. My younger sister with her hands over her eyes is sucking in air through her teeth with a 'seee seee seee'. She is jump walking around in her bright yellow frock. Meanwhile a cousin dressed in a gray kurta (long shirt that hangs out to the knees) is maniacally dancing, pointing and shouting 'Shaitan! Shaitan! Shaitan! (Devil, devil, devil!)' The kurta's edges lift and twist around him like that of a whirling dervish. Everyone else is calmly absorbed in the slaughter- with an occassional shushing glare directed towards the crying children. The soft but sharp moos seem to cut open the sky's vein. I stand transfixed in a corner. An uncle carries the sobbing bright yellow frock inside the house. I grow a little quieter that day.

Nostrils flared, throat stretched my calf makes guttural noise, breathing "khhhaaar, haahhhhar, huhhhhar" splash, splotch, splush, sputter. She gurgles with her own blood. She is excreting a yellow sludge from the rear as her urine mixes with her blood. Her eyes are turning and her irises are turning blue. Froth forms around her mouth.

What follows is really very routine. The blood-splattered butchers enter the house greeted by fake shrieks of artificial women. The mothers pretend that their accidentally stained child is bleeding and after giving out fake cries of horror will begin to fuss over them. The child recalling the reactions of the animal will shout, bray and resist until overpowered into taking a shower. Once clean and rested everyone indulges in an orgy of gluttony. Everyone moves inside before noon and before the desert heat becomes unbearable.

The men eat in the over decorated, stiflingly velvetish rooms - in our case the drawing rooms. The women and children herd together in harems, kitchens or living rooms- in our case the extra garages that were converted last year into rooms that resembled bunkers. My mother describes all the elaborate indoor ornaments that adorn the men's drawing room to the women. My father grumbles about how my mother is extravagant with crystal vases and the UnIslamic/ Haram (forbidden) pictures of living things.

"Well that was not too bad," says my balding uncle to Abbu Jan consolingly.

"The Prophet's way is the best..." announces Abbu as though talking to me all the while consolingly patting my sister (in her "favor-rate" bright yellow frock) to sleep. "We have the most painless way of sacrificing animals...contrary to what those animal rights groups would have us believe...we have a perfect religion ... " he states closing with the scriptures.

I nod my head rather emphatically. My sister has fallen asleep. She always falls asleep when she is sad. She is drooling all over my father's left shoulder but that does not prevent him from carrying her in his arms. I am devout; I look up to my father. I always sit behind him when he prays and

I am very aware of the perfection of God's ways.

"In the West, by the way, that is where our son will eventually go to study..." his chest heaves to touch his beard as he halts with a dramatic pause to convey the full meaning of his words to his listener,"...they brutally electrocute an animal to death..."

I again nod my head respectfully. As far as I am concerned the West is decadent and immoral: a place where everyone has sex all the time [yummy]

Ammi (mother) had always wanted to live in America - Abbu was dead against it for years. But as Abbu Jan got older and hopelessly uglier he began giving in to my mother and they came to a compromise: I was to go to the West.

I am looking forward to it say the least- imagining all the raging sex - little did I know that I would be thoroughly disappointed.

I have heard everything my father ever said or will say so I find myself moving to willingly offer my mother assistance with the catering. The men and the women overate in their segregated corners while the children roamed in no man's land. We would run around laughing, eating and drinking 7 UP. Our territory stretched from the multicolored tents surrounding the house to the gardens, the servant's quarters, the three levels of the house and the roof. Hide and seek over this territory was the norm.

When it was just the boys we would play soccer barefoot in the scalding desert heat. We would make goal posts out of stones or any visibly large obstruction and play till we were hot, red, sunburned and covered in sand.

Girls did not participate in any outdoor sports, firstly because they were too worried about ruining their finely embroidered dresses or their complexion. Besides even if they wanted to play their dresses did not permit them to run. When we had girls as playmates all would consent to playing hide and seek in a darkened room. It was appropriately called dark room.

Playing dark room we would excitedly look for places to hide in the room while the seeker would count to a hundred (loudly so that we could tell). That Eid day- I switch off the lights and hide myself after shouting out a loud "reaaaaaaaaaaaaady".

Today, we chose the largest, darkest bedroom on the top floor of the house. Today, I find myself sharing the cupboard space with a satiny white frock. The frock is worn by the eldest daughter of one my father's co-pilots. We pretend our proximity is all a part of the game and decide to just share the excitement (and the cupboard space).

The seeker is stumbling over plastic chairs and castles and tripping over well placed "traps". In the closet we are both stifling our giggles and shivering with anticipation. The seeker is progressing rather clumsily when my closet mate hugs me in what feels like a scared he-is-going-to-catch-us embrace. Her warm breath course through my ear and all sound is sucked out of my world. I can smell the freshness of the minty gum she is chewing. I think I can discern her large eyes staring into me. I think I can feel the dampness of her long brown hair against my skin.

I find myself playing along. I draw her closer. I feel her cheek against mine. Sitting there cuddling each other in that dark, damp closet smelling of leather coats, shoes and mint I know time has stopped and the future had become apparent.

Our cheeks roll against each other's till we were lip to lip. There I sit lightly brushing my flaring lips against a minty softness.

We sit there holding each other till I feel a throbbing heat on the back of my neck - the smoldering coals of hell were calling. I jump out of the closet and am "bhanda"afied (caught).

Later through the day I try to avoid my closet mate as I lounge around dreamily, running my tongue through my teeth and dislodging a memorable minty taste from its crevices. The elderly observers of my condition hold the shockingly botched sacrifice responsible. Speculations fly around and over my head: "He had really grown attached to that poor cow...", "I think he wants more Eidy."

My friends think I am taking my being "bhanda"fied in a spirit contrary to that of a "sportsman".

General conversation floats over from all directions:

"... When you sacrifice an animal with your own hands you feel certain that it is Halal (permissible)"

"...Cleanliness I say is half of faith ... yet the municipality would never pick up the entrails in time..."

"... the whole city is littered with dead animal entrails ... the smell is overpowering..."

"... its corrupt, everyone is corrupt... just yesterday I had to pay 300 to a lowly clerk just to get a license ..."

" ... and it will rot, and flies and disease will spread like crazy... I tell you..."

"...the hide will definitely get you some money ...I plan to donate mine to the Jamaate Islami ( Islamic Party) ... they have militant missions in Kashmir and Afghanistan that need the mon..."

"... I wanted to donate to the Edhi Trust but the Jamaatis (party members) always cause trouble in the neighborhood if they do not get their quota..."

"... ohh the Edhi Trust are doing a great job with abandoned children..."

My closet mate is nowhere to be seen - someone informs me that she is sobbing in her mother's lap pouring out what sounds like a guilty confession. Maybe I should go over and hold her hand. Maybe I should go over and run my fingers through her long brown hair. But I am a god-fearing, obedient son - the oldest son, the heir and role model for my sisters.

I could not really go around cavorting with every girl I meet in some closet! I had responsibilities, honor and shame. Besides, we could all say so much but we hesitate after all for we "live in a society". We learn to hold in a lot of things. We all keep to ourselves and avoid looking weak, needy, lonely and human. We then hate everyone else for doing exactly as we do. We hide our desires and we hide our shades of shame even though we are all the same. It is painful. But then we "mature" and begin to prefer the pleasure of the pain.

It is early in the evening and I need to get away (I can only hold so much mint in the crevices of my teeth) So I invite my devil-hallucinating-dirty-dancing cousin to test shoot my pellet gun on the roof.

Moments later we are randomly shooting into swarms of birds perched on our TV antenna. Every time we shoot, the sparrows rise like a huge cloud but by the time we reload they are back on the same antenna. Unfortunately the birds have very short memories. Fortunately we are terrible shots.

Then out of the blue I notice a sparrow drop straight down. I rush to my prey, my cousin in tow, drooling and eagerly brandishing his Swiss Army pocketknife.

As I pick up the bird off the damp soft floor I notice how light it is. It is gray, tiny and birdlike except its feathery chest has a gaping hole. The hole is not big, its edges are fringed by ragged scarred tissue. No spurting blood either, just a sighing, heaving, chirping bird with a hole that shows its insides. Surprisingly it is still alive.

The bird rests on my palms its wings outspread. It turns its face away from me as though it does not wish to speak to me. Its eyes have tiny opening-and-closing eyelids. I see no tears. I see only an occasionally convulsing bird- held by trembling hands. My cousin comes up from behind me reciting "In the name of Allah the beneficent, the merciful." and brandishing his old Swiss Army pocketknife.

I lay it down on the floor of the garage as my cousin falls upon it with his blunt pocketknife. He is no more of a slaughterer than my father. So we are left with a live bird and its badly mauled throat. The bird is left with a visible spinal chord which is now the only thing attaching the head to the rest of the body. The worst part is that the bird is still alive and still twitching, sighing and chirping. I harshly push my cousin aside and holding the bird in hand I rush to my mother begging her to end its misery.

My mother however screws up her pretty features into a disgusted look and pushes me aside. I did not know my mother was so jaded.

Then my palms feel gentle movement. It was the bird calling attention to itself. I rush out to quickly carry out the bird's funeral. Placing the bird on the ground I dig through the burning hot sand with my bare hands. Then placing the bird in the hole I pour sand over it. The sand on the wounds aggravated the pain. It literally worked like salt on wounds.

The bird soars through its shallow grave. It limps around all over the ground its head bobbing on its chest ... and then it collapses on the sand.

With tears blocking my vision I stumble back to embrace the madness inside. I rush in to the house to let the gobbling engulf, immerse and flood me. I stand in a hidden corner trying to hide my tear stained face.

I hurry out of the house. I step outside into the hot, humid evening. I pick up a stone and start digging a hole in the soft sand. Dig, delve, sift, lift, scrap, scoop. I cover the hole and then start digging all over again.