Once a Paindoo, Always a Paindoo

Have you ever gone out at night to the market place and felt like a complete ‘paindoo’. You see all the girls smartly dressed up, and aunties with Gucci bags, and blinding bright lights and you look down at yourself: puraani kolapuri and crumpled kurta shalwar. And you think to yourself ‘what the hell am I doing here?’. Well, I experienced something of the sort last week. I had to drop off my sister at a popular eating-place in town for a night of fun and end-of-exams celebrations, and there it hit me (Not that the world is turning into a consumerist fool but which hole had I been hiding in?) I know lately I had been spending more and more time in the office and Sundays are spent in a blissful laze. But when did I turn my back to the world?

It reminded me of our visits to my nano’s place in Lahore when we were kids (and my dad was posted to some God forsaken town) and summers were actually fun! Long road trips, squabbles in the back seat among us kids and old songs on the car stereo. We would be reaching Lahore late at night and daddy would be taking us around town and treating us to some tikkas or dahi bharas. Mum and Dad would be re-living their memories by driving along the canal and checking out their old hang out places, and nano would be worried sick at home. She knew this ritual but still prepared the food and put Sheedan on standby for garam garam chapattis! And when we would reach home, she would be waiting outside at the gate, and the moment we got out from the car, her scolding would start. Which somehow would be muffled in all the kissing and hugging that usually takes place between the grandparents and grandkids. But for mum and dad it was just a peck on the cheek and a cheeky comment in Punjabi “paindoo battian vaikhan agayne” [the rustics have come to see the bright lights]. Life when we were kids was great! Though we have grown up, we still remain paindoo all the same: what is it about big cities that still scares me? Is it the fear of getting lost in the crowds, the noise pollution, or the fear you’ll never fit in? But I guess, that evening in my own town Islamabad was enough to prove that its none of the above.

Last weekend, Dad took us to our village near Talagang. There was some shadi in the family, and for once we were stationed nearby to be actually able to attend one. We all found excuses to somehow squirm our way out of it. I feigned unavailability of leave from work and my sister was quite perplexed about her falling grades at college. The youngest had an important cricket match that she just couldn’t miss. But mum was like nothing doing: ‘WE are going’. So WE went.

A 3 hour long drive and a roadside stopover for tea served in badiyan (clay bowls) and we have reached the village for an evening of mehndi and fireworks! The haveli (if you can call it one) is filled with people in their fineries and the usual shadi time chaos. We steal ourselves away to wash up and get into some decent clothing. The only consolation was the familiar faces of our cousins who had also travelled for that particular shadi and were looking as lost as us! Soon we were laughing hysterically over some unusual sightings amongst us. The cows and goats tied at the corner of the courtyard, the washroom with no lock, the room with no ceiling fan, the open-air kitchen et al.

Soon its time for the festivities to start. It begins with ‘gharolli’. The sister of the groom puts the gharolli (or gharra, the clay pitcher) filled to the brim with milk, on her head and stands till she‘s given money by her brother and all the women (young and old alike) circle around her and do luddi in a particular style at the strange beat of the marasi’s drum. So far so good. Suddenly we find ourselves pushed in the circle of the dancing women and panic hits me. I usually enjoy dancing, and up till then had thought I was a pretty good dancer (he, he) but soon realized that its not my cup of tea This strange ritual, these unfamiliar steps that everyone seemed to be doing in unison. So my sis and I came to stand by the sidelines, enjoying the view. Now it’s turn for the male faux pas. My mami sends money to the boys to come and give to the ‘marasi’ on the drums. So all of them are standing there perplexed, my sis walks up to them:

‘Whats up?’

‘Who’s the marasi?’

‘WHAT?? Yo apa, Ali wanna know who’s marasi!’

‘Well, who is he? We need to give him this money’

‘That’s the guy beating the drum, jaahil!’

‘Oh’

Now the groom comes with his dost-yaar and is seated at the center of the courtyard. The usual mehndi/oil/mithai rasm takes place now. While us girls somehow breeze through this one, Ali eats the mithai that was supposed to be given to the groom, while Mansoor puts the money back in his pocket "groom ke upar se vaar nay ke baad". All this time the marasi chants the vails.

‘Mansoor Malik Munir ki vail!’



That brings a couple of laughs and with that the marasi picks up the beat and everyone’s on their feet dancing to the tune of the drum and the shehnai wallah. So start the boys, and dads alike. Wait a minute . Is THAT my dad??!! Great, if that shock wasn’t enough I see my entire clan of uncles and even my foreign return mamu dancing in that particular style of luddi. They start a little off-rhythm but soon everyone joins in, and its nearly 20 men moving and clapping on the same beat in unison. The same beat that seemed strange a little while back… the same beat on which now depends the joy and happiness of the entire family and on-lookers alike. They say once you get in the rhythm you can never stop. [Red and green notes start flying and the marasi’s sons jump and grab them]

Now prepares the party for the bride’s house. Decorated mehndi trays are collected, gas lamps are picked by the mazaraas, and everyone’s ready.

‘Wait a minute. Where are we going?”

‘To the bride’s house’

‘Where’s the bride’s house?’

‘On the dhok’

‘Why aren’t we taking the cars?’

‘What do we need cars for?’

‘Mum, we need cars to get there. Don’t we?’

Seems like I am the only one upset about this fact, while the rest of the people are half way out of the gates. In the front is the marasi, this time beating a different slow beat. Women folk follow chanting some strange African songs. Well, they weren’t African songs really, but their strange chants and sedative drumbeat all mingled together to give off the strange unfamiliar effect you hear on National Geographics

My mum is telling my cousins that the first time they took me to Maasi Noor Bano’s dhok (I was 5 yrs old) I had run in the sarson (mustard) fields shouting, ‘Little House on the prairie, Little House on the prairie’. Little House on the Prairie was apparently a popular English Series on PTV in those days. This, my cousins found quite amusing. Trust your mum to come up with choicest of things to embarrass you at oddest of moments.

Already the first party is well on its way. I can see because of the 2 bobbing gas lamps at front. Thus begins our 25 minute walk to the dhok in pristine moonlight. Oh did I mention this before? The clear bright moonlight in which you can see for miles and miles ahead. Never before have I seen such a clear night and enjoyed walking in the dark. Someone mentioned that there is no electricity where we were going. And I wasn’t surprised, I was too absorbed in the magic of that night to let any such thing matter to me. In no time we have reached the dhok. Sitting at the center of the wheat crops, is the bride’s house with no pretentious decorated lights and tons of people waiting to greet us. The marasi’s drumbeat has changed back to the fast one. We bring in the lighted mehndi trays and set them in the center of yet another courtyard. Now we are circling the mehndi trays. All waiting eagerly to start the steps. Here they start, and this time I am ready to follow it. Slowly everyone builds up the pace. I fumble once or twice but soon find myself in-step with the rest of them.

Isn’t it strange, all your life you try to fit in, to be accepted, to have that sense of belonging. I guess we fauji-kids are a little ill-fated in this regard. Ever since I was a kid, I have been trying to fit in. At every school I went to; at every station my dad was posted to. And right when I started feeling at home there, it was time for us to pack our bags and leave once again. We made many friends but could never maintain those relationships. My mum says she cant live in one house for more than 2 years. She says in 2 years you can move the furniture as many times as you like, in every possible way: That after 2 years there is no point in staying in the same house any longer. That’s her logic. Or maybe that’s the way she has come to console herself.

The place where we live now, is the best we have ever lived in. (that’s how I felt about all the places we ever lived in: the 2 room cottage in Mangla, the bungalow on river view road in Jhelum, the 2 bedroom flat in Quetta, the colonial mansion complete with stables and a rose garden in Zhob, the mess room in Bahawalpur.) But somehow I have started to dread leaving this one. Two more months and it will be another town, another story. It’s a wonderful feeling to live under the mountains, to wake up and see them standing majestically in the backdrop. Guarding over you.

I love mountains and trees. In my scheme of things they hold special place. They are witnesses of time. They have seen the storms and fair weathers alike. They have seen millions of dawns and little boys growing up to be men. And like all places we ever lived in, this too we shall have to leave. Pack our bags and hit the road again. But going back to that evening in the village, and dancing to the beat of the marasi’s drum. I knew in my heart, what I was looking for.

Slowly and steadily the beat picked up, in turn the circle moves. It started slowly but now its moving fast. A clap - a step - a clap and a step - faster and faster - till the whole world is whizzing around you I hear my sis yell: ‘Look at apa, mum’. I try to see where they are, but the circle is moving too fast to keep track of who you are passing and why. Its just us and the marasi’s drum's beat.

When it ends, my sis comes up to me, ‘wow, that was great’. I beam back at her, all breathless and red in the face. My mum with a fist full of notes upar se vaar ke, hands it to the marasi. He chants:

‘Malkani ji ki vail’

I turn and he bows his head a little, lifts his hand in praise and chants:

‘Hana, Malik Akram saab ki vail’

Its their way of announcing you to everyone present. Always with the first name and then the name of the father. Suddenly looming deadlines at work, the unfinished Vikram Seth on the bedside table, the Mp3 player that I had been saving for months for, just didn’t matter any longer. That evening under the bright moonlight and millions of stars, on a dhok with no electricity, I knew where I belonged. Yes, I am a paindoo. So what?

‘Hana, Malik Akram Saab ki vail’