A tiny slice of Punjab. . .

By the time I arrived in Manhattan, at Port Authority, I was exhausted and dehydrated. I also had to lug a suitcase, a tote bag, and a smaller tote through the subway entrances and exits, which in my state was no easy feat.

I was also rather disoriented. Had I taken out the directions I had written on the back of my cell phone bill, I would have remembered that I did not have to leave the 42nd street station as soon as I arrived, but nooooo -- a very tired ana decided that I had to get to Penn Station rather than Grand Central in order to take the train to Westchester county.

I wandered through Penn for a while trying to find how to get to Metro North. Finally one of the staff people told me I had to get back to 42nd street and take the shuttle. I made it back to the subway again, wailing out loud within earshot of the helpful staff person, "I was just THERE!"

***
While still in Newark also known as the armpit (or one of them) of New Jersey, I had called my Maamoo's house, and spoke to one of my cousins. I could not check into the hostel until later in the afternoon, and I wondered if it was okay if I came over, and showered, and hung out with them for a wee bit. They said I should definitely do that.

I got on the train to Peekskill an hour later than originally planned, because of the difficulty of moving around with my luggage and making it to Grand Central Station. I was aware that it was two days before the mehndi, less than four before the wedding, and did not want to be in the way of the folks making all the plans and other arrangements (this was more my Western experience talking. If I totally thought like a desi, I would not have worried about being in their way; what's more, they would put me to work!).

I got to Peekskill and A. picked me up. I had not seen A. in over twenty years. He is twelve years younger than I am, and married to a lovely woman from a country in Latin America. I had not been able to go to his wedding because they married in her hometown. A. is just as adorable as I remembered him, when he was small. I regaled him with some stories of his older brother on the way to their house, where I had stayed nine years ago, and we laughed. When we got home, Maamoo and Aunty had gone to pick up another Aunty, Maamoo's sister and her husband from the airport.

I finally met J. upon arrival. Just as dainty and lovely as in the wedding photo they had sent us, with a slight change - she is going to have a baby! We spoke in English and a little bit of Spanish, and A. made coffee for me, while J. drank milk. We sat and talked and I felt like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoons, but I wanted this little bit of peace before it got really crazy.

More cousins were in the house. The Australians, as we referred to them for the rest of their stay. I met the son of Maamoo M., whom I have never met, his wife and their two sons. My Australian cousin and I hit it off immediately, there was almost no sense that this was the first time we were meeting. Finally though, I had to take a shower, because the blood on the leg of my pants and my griminess was just driving me crazy.

***
My Australian cousin's wife does not speak Urdu. Only Punjabi. If you speak to her in Urdu, she understands, but she also looks at you as if you were from outer space. The two sons speak neither Punjabi nor Urdu, but they understand everything that is said to them. It takes a wee bit of fine tuning to accustom oneself to the Aussie accent.

Everyone spoke in Punjabi for the most part. Except for J. of course. I told Maamoo, "Aap sab beshak Punjabi maiN boleN, J. aur meiN Spanish maiN boleNge!" He laughed. I love Maamoo's laugh. It takes me back to when we were small and he spent some time with us while doing his medical internship in Lahore. He likes to tease me a lot about my "shusta" and "nafees" Urdu, which I think is a big joke.

I told my maasiyaaN and one of my Uncles that Maamoo constantly talked about my "shusta" Urdu and I could not even differentiate between muzzakar and moanas. They chuckled. Uncle said that the fact that I said muzzakar and moanas was a big deal. He asked if I knew what it meant. I told him. No one realizes or perhaps they forget that I read and studied Urdu from Class I to Class IX, which included Urdu adab and grammar. And while I have forgotten much, it is still a part of me, much more than Punjabi has been.

It was funny how one of my uncles would begin to say something in Punjabi, and then once he turned to me would switch to Urdu. Finally I had to tell him, "Aap ko Punjabi se Urdu maiN badalnay ki zaroorat nahiN. MeiN samajhti hooN. Aur jo nahiN samjhi, meiN pooch looNgi." What a relief that must have been to all present.

My mother's side of the family does not speak the maajhay di Punjabi that my father does. At least not all of them. So it was much easier to understand them, and even if I did not understand one or two words, I knew what they were talking about.

From the day I arrived to the day of the wedding, Maamoo's house was like a tiny slice of the Punjab. And the food, oh the food, the paraThas, the pooriyaaN with chanay and halwa, the various meat and vegetable dishes, the biryani, and my goodness the miThaiyaaN, ladoo, barfi, kalakand, gulabjamun, and the elders with their "khhao bachay khhao!" Even some of us Pakistani Punjabis could relate to some extent to Mira Nair's "Monsoon Wedding". I gained quite a bit of the weight back that I had worked so hard to lose.

It even rained on the day of the wedding. How funny is that?

***
My cousin was going to marry a gori Amreekan young woman, who is from the South. And just like they did with A. and J.'s wedding, Maamoo and Aunty wanted to bring in our culture, and our rasm-o-rawaaj. So there was to be a mehndi party.

When I say our rasm-o-rawaaj though, this was not followed by everyone in our family. My Nanananiji did not follow these customs. When Khalaji married, there was no mehndi, and nothing of what happens when the dulha arrives at the bride's house. When her younger sister, my mother married, all Nanaji permitted in his house was the presentation of a glass of milk to the dulha, my father, upon his arrival. It wasn't until my cousins' and our generation that such rasmeN as mehndi would return. My family is perhaps more unfamiliar with these than any of our relatives, with the exception perhaps of my nieces and nephews born outside of Pakistan.

Most of the relatives from Canada and other parts of America arrived on the day of the mehndi. Two of my aunties I had not seen in over thirty years and an uncle I had never met were brought to Maamoo's house. I greeted all of them, and the uncle said, "Now introduce yourself."

"You know G, right?"

"Of course!" He said in his quiet voice.

"I am her youngest daughter." Uncle was married to one of my mother's cousins. Both the aunties present were sisters, Ma's cousins, and her phuphi's daughters who shared a very close bond with my mother and her family.

I bonded with my eighty-two year old uncle almost immediately. We sat next to one another as we drank chai, and a tray of miThaiyaaN was ThoNsaoed in front of us. He was being rather jovial, and making fun of his wife and sister-in-law, and others around him. I had to get up for some reason and as I rose from my chair I said, "Mujhe pehle tau kabhi nahiN m'aloom tha, par ab pata chal raha hai ke aap kitne shararti haiN!"

The aunties laughed the loudest, my maasi, his wife said, "Sahi pehchaan kiya tu ne isska." He grinned at me. All the elders at the table smiled. That initial anxiety of not fitting in eroded in that moment.

It returned when it came to dressing up for the mehndi. I was probably the only relative who was not going to wear a shalwar kameez. I showed Aunty what I was going to wear, and the jacket and blouse were black. Aunty thoRi si ghabra gayeeN. She asked, "Are you wearing black this evening?"

I was crestfallen. Then I took out the skirt, with a black background, but rang barangay flowers, and Aunty felt more relaxed. Even the bride-to-be was wearing a lehnga and her parents were going to wear shalwar kameez. The idea, to state the obvious as I am wont to do, was to have them experience a little slice of our culture.

The men looked absolutely wonderful with their light colored or brown shalwar kameezaiN, with scarves around their necks, and as I finally met all of my cousins dressed in their bright sparkly outfits, I remembered how beautiful they all were, when I was a kid, and they had grown even more beautiful. Everyone who knew me recognized me almost immediately because my looks have not changed all that much from the last time they saw me in my teens, until that day, but I had trouble recognizing some of my cousins. And then there were the ones I had never met before. And the nieces, and nephews, baap re! Gorgeous, adorable, a joy!

***
Unintentionally, things began late. We were not operating on Punjabi Standard Time. The bride-to-be and her family were stuck in New York traffic. But once they began, it was fun from that moment on. I had to laugh though when the first song of the first set that the Punjabi DJ played was Punjabi MC's "MunDeyaaN te bach ke raho".

The men, my cousins and one of my uncles were out there on the dance floor, paoing phangRa, and we women joined in as well. I did not think I would be able to dance because of my legs, but I thought, when is something like this going to happen again? Have fun and dance tonight, your body will pay for it later. I did, and my body did pay for it later. J., pregnant, and looking ever so lovely in her blue lehnga outfit wanted to dance too, and did a little bit until she was made to sit down. It was a lovely sight, my cousins, and the Americans all out on the dance floor. The times when only the goray log were dancing, and they had the moves, baby! We all watched. I went to my Australian cousin and said, "Where are the Punjabis? The goras are putting us all to shame!" What I should have thought was that for that one night, they, like us, were like that only.

One of Maamoo's friends gave a detailed history of how henna came to be in our part of the world. I cannot say I paid much attention to that, but then it came time for the anointing. The bride and groom's heads were to be anointed with oil, and a tiny dab of mehndi was to be put on a paper napkin set on the palm of one of their hands. I have been to mehndis as a child and do not recall it being done like this, so this was new to me.

The women lined up. I stood back with one of my nieces. She asked me, "Do you know what's going on?"

"I have no clue. Do you?"

We laughed. "Chalo," I said, "We will watch and see how it's done." So we watched, and with all that was going on, it still was a little sketchy. So I went to my niece's nani and said, "Aunty, ye meiN ne pehle kabhi kiya nahiN, aap batayeN kaise shurooh kareN." She laughed and said that there really wasn't anything to it, no sahi tareeqah.

As the line dwindled, my rather tall niece and I were finally able to catch a clearer glimpse of what was happening. The line had all but ended when I told her to go first, and I would follow. My turn, I did a little "adaab" raising my hand to my forehead. Then rather unsteadily, I dipped a finger in the oil, and dabbed it on my cousin's head, then repeated the same action with the new addition to our family. Then I dipped a finger in the mehndi, and put it on the napkin in my cousin's palm, followed by the same with the bride-to-be. I put my arms around her, kissed her cheek and said, "Welcome to the family." I hugged my cousin and congratulated him.

Phew! Now we could all go back to the dancing! This rite too had passed. Our baby was getting married. He was not the youngest of the brothers, and he was definitely not the last cousin getting married, but he was still our baby!

At the end, my cousins were applying mehndi to anyone who wished. The bride-to-be did not want it on her hand, it was applied to the top of one of her feet instead. I had it done only on one hand. I was teasing my cousin, "Hai gudgudi ho rahi hai." And she would stop. Then I said, "NaeeN meiN tau aisay keh rahi thi." Finally she said, "Mehndi lagatay huay gudgudi nahiN hoti."

I had hoped the design of flowers and hearts would stay on long enough for me to show Ma. It did. Even though it had faded quite a bit by the time I returned home the night before last.

***
The whole purpose of having the wedding at the Bronx botanical gardens was to have it outside. The weather gods did not cooperate. At some point, an hour before the ceremony, the sun shone, and we cheered. But while the various family photographs were taken, the rain came down again. The large hall with the huge chandeliers which was set for the lunch, was rearranged for the wedding ceremony, and so once again we were not on PST. It was nice not to be responsible for most of the times things did not begin promptly.

It was a beautiful ceremony. The bride was glowing. She was all smiles as she came in with her father. One of my cousins sitting behind me said, "Pakistan maiN dulhaneN itna nahiN muskaratay haiN." It did not sound like a criticism, merely an observation.

The appetizers looked delicious, but I wanted to save some room for the actual meal. I got myself a Black Label on the rocks and sat next to Uncle and my maasiyaaN. I could have spent more time around my cousins, but I wanted to be around them as well. They looked at my drink, and asked me what it was. Uncle ventured various guesses, until I said, "It's whiskey."

"ThoRa sa mujhe pilaogi?" My eighty-two year old uncle asked.

"Pehle kabhi piya hai aap ne?" I asked. He shook his head. "Phir aap ko ab shurooh nahin karna chahiye."

"Na meiN ne kabhi cigarette piye haiN, aur na sharaab."

He is one of the rare men in our family who has touched neither. And I am one of the rare women in our family (if not the only one) who has touched both. Halfway through my drink, baRi maasi looked at me and said, "Bas itna kaafi hai." I smiled.

***
During the luncheon, I sat next to one of chhoTi maasi's sons-in-law, Lhaur da ik banda, a Muslim, who as far as I know did not convert when he married my cousin, nor did he ask her to do so. At the mehndi, I had walked up to him and my Australian cousin, and he told me that he could hear my laugh from afar, and how nice it sounded. My Aussie bhai agreed. I hoped I was not blushing because I have never been good with compliments.

It was at the luncheon that I got a little more information about him. I found out he was from Lahore, Cantonment was his neighborhood. It was so nice to talk to him about Jeno's, the restaurant in the Fortress Stadium area, and how as kids we enjoyed going there for burgers and fries. He told me Jeno's is no longer there and has not been for a while, the story of many places from my childhood. He also told me that he went to F.C College, and I told him how I went to Esena Foundation, and how the college men came and stood behind the walls of our all girls school. I told him, "Meray zamanay maiN tau nahiN kiya hoga." I asked him when he was there. I was no longer in Pakistan when he was at F.C.

As much as we Punjabis danced at the mehndi, we could not really relate to the music played at the luncheon. Much as I liked the songs from the fifties to the eighties that the band played, I could not dance to them, and while the groom and bride and her entourage were going crazy on the dance floor, I thought about how some of us were unable to cross the bridge the Americans had. Perhaps we were just too tired. Perhaps in our heavy outfits, the saris, the long jackets, the tight shoes, we could not.

The celebration was coming to a close, and as everyone was leaving, and baRi maasi embraced me and said goodbye, I began to cry once she had walked away. She came back and told me affectionately that I should not be crying. I saw one of my cousins wagging her finger at me, commanding me not to cry. The tears just would not stop. Finally I walked up to their table, and my cousins put their arms around me. The finger wagging cousin mock scolded me, "MeiN ne tujhe manah nahiN kiya, aur tu phir ro rahi hai!"

"Tu kaun hoti hai mujhe manah karne wali, tu mujhse chhoTi hai." I retorted through my tears. We laughed and hugged one another. Then she told me that I was to come to Toronto in June for our baji's daughter's wedding. Pukka! "Aur meiN Baji ko bataoNgi ke tu pukka aa rahi hai."

"Yaar abhi pukka na kehna." I protested. "NaeeN, naeeN. Pukka!"

If only things could be so definite. But as baRi maasi told Ma, ye na keh ke koshish karegi, balke ye keh ke agar khuda ne chaha tau. With God, all things are possible.

***
One of my maasis kept pressing me about this tendency of mine to weep when there is no reason to do so. She could not understand why out of nowhere I was overcome with tears. I tried to make her understand that it had been decades since I had seen most of these relatives. And that the closeness between both of my maasis' children and their children reminded me of a time in our lives, when we shared such closeness with Khalaji's children, with our Maamoo's children. They were not really tears of sadness, but even in this time of joy, there was that sense of something missing. And I had grown so attached to dear Uncle W., I did not want the time with him to end.

Aunty told me I did not have to explain myself. Those who knew me, understood.

She and some of my other cousins smiled the day I called Ma and told her that for over a week I had done nothing but speak Punjabi, and when I returned home that was all I was going to speak.

I have been home for two full days now, and have probably uttered two sentences in our language - so far. I was glad that I got to spend the time that I did with my relatives. Glad that I canceled my reservations to the hostel and did not stay in the city. There are great differences within our families, but even through those, the closeness and familial feeling does not die, and now that I have everyone's phone numbers, I have told Ma that she should remain in touch with the cousins around whom she grew up and shared such wonderful memories, and their children. I think it will make us feel a lot less isolated, here in our little corner of Eastern Oregon.