In memory

There are few people who have left me with memories that I will always recall fondly. Deep within these are hidden blessings and valuable life lessons delivered with exquisite humour. For these I thank you now. Although I shall never be able to tell you this in person, I need to put this down in writing for myself.

Memory, 7 years old, Lahore.

I’m fascinated with a large golden key in our drawing room. It lies amongst all the usual decorations but it strikes out because of its size. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are sitting on the sofas chatting and I am constantly interrupting them because I want to know what the key is for. In my seven year old universe all keys have locks to go with them. It’s a law of nature. Yet I can’t figure out what this particular key unlocks.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu look at me solemnly and I know that they know. I know that if I pester enough I will get it out of them.
And I do.
“This key,” I am told by Ajji Chachu, “is for your mother.”
“I use it on her every morning,” Abbu reveals to me, “without it she won’t start.”
I believe them and guard the key. I can’t imagine a world where my mother won’t start. I become almost paranoid about the key, checking to see if it’s in its place numerous times a day.
I was convinced my mother had a secret lock in her back which was needed to start her.
Of course, months later, when I finally reveal to her that I know the secret of the key, she laughs at me.
I have been fooled.

Memory, 8 years old, Kuala Lumpur.

Ajji Chachu’s new name for me is kukar phaar. I can’t stop eating chicken. I practically live on KFC, refusing to eat anything else that is offered to me.
Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in one of their moods. They’re my real life Laurel and Hardy. And I am usually the best victim because of my gullibility.
I wonder aloud how people grow. I can’t figure out why I’m always being cajoled into eating horrible green things, and why I am made to drink milk, which I hate even more than salad. How can they make me grow?
“You see child, you’re not normal,” Ajji Chachu tells me with a straight face.
I am informed by Laurel and Hardy that I require extra help to grow. Every night as I sleep they take me outside and hang me on the washing line. And then stretch me. That is the reason for my growth. If it wasn’t for them, I would never have grown. I would have remained baby sized.
I am thoroughly bewildered and remain convinced that they are right. That they are the reason why I grow at all. Later when I tell my mother what I have found out she laughs at me again. I fell for it again.

Memory, 17 years old, Lahore.

I have just finished my O’ levels and am on my way to UWC in Wales. I’m terribly excited. Never in a million years did I think I would end up with a scholarship to college. Abbu and Ajji Chachu are in sitting in the drawing room and I am informed that my presence is required.
When I walk in both Abbu and Ajji Chachu look solemn. I am asked to take a seat. I am confused at their behaviour and the formal atmosphere that permeates the place.
“Nabiha Meher,” (pronounced Nabiya Mer in true Punjabi fashion) says Ajji Chachu, “we’re getting you married. You’re not going to Wales.”
My father agrees with him and I stare at them in shock wondering what came over the only two Pakistani men who I know that support feminism. I’m on the verge of tears. I know they’re joking but they look so serious. I ask them to stop messing with me but Ajji Chachu calmly tells me that it’s not a joke. He continues to tell me over and over again that I have to get married and that they’ve already consented on my behalf. The wedding is to take place in December.
I really lose it now. I’m screaming. But Ajji Chachu calmly persists. I have to get married.
I am convinced they’ve lost their minds. I am about to run crying to my mother when they crack and start laughing hysterically.
Again.

Memory, 20 years old, Lahore.

Ajji Chachu comes over for dinner the night before I leave for Islamabad for two days.
“Why don’t you go in one of my trucks. You can ride with the rest of the animals!” he kindly offers.
You see, Ajji Chachu is doing something brilliant. He’s left his job at ICI and is now working with a Chinese company. They’re reusing the old silk route for trade. I am fascinated. I am in awe of my uncle for taking such a risk and for using a historically important trade line.
Months later Ammi calls me up in Toronto and tells me Ajji Chachu has been promoted to head of his company. I am excited but sad because he told me he would be moving to Beijing.
I express myself to mother who pisses herself laughing on the phone.
“CHINA,” she screams, “why on earth do you think he’s moving to China?”
“Because of the new Chinese company…”
“What new Chinese company?”
“The one he left his ICI job for.”
“Nabiha,” my mother is saying slowly as if talking to an idiot, “Ajji works for ICI.”
I insist that he doesn’t. I inform her he told me about the silk route etc.
She pauses to let it sink in before saying, “he never left ICI. He was just pulling your leg as usual.”
I am twenty years old and yet I believe anything Ajji Chachu says to me because he says it with a straight face.

It’s hard to believe that he’s gone. I know I won’t realise it fully until I go back to Pakistan and notice a large gaping hole in my universe. Ajji Chachu knew me from the minute I took my first breath. He was one of the first people to welcome me into this world in his large open arms. A silent promise to love and protect me was made. His love as the most fun man in the whole big world increased with each passing year. With the doll bigger than me given to me on my first birthday. With bear hugs and words of encouragement when I was unsure of myself. With support and kindness that reassured me of humanity, and lead me to believe that in myself and those around me. He put up with my temper tantrums, usually encouraging them so I let them all out. And he pulled my leg over and over again to cheer me up and make us all have a good laugh.

Now I see emptiness and all I am left with is a lifetime of memories to help me in my journey. Now I see darkness at the end of the tunnel instead of the light that emulated from Ajji Chachu. Now I wonder why. Now I question God again. Now I lose faith. Now I need him more than ever.

But he is gone.

I often lay awake at night and wonder about death. I’m grieving in a foreign land, like I have done before. Yet, never before have I felt a loss so deep, a loss so profound that it sucks life out of me as I howl with confusion over his death. Why! I remember screaming to my empty apartment when my mother’s calm voice declared “Ajji Chachu has died.” Why! I screamed over and over again while staring at the ceiling as if imploring God. How could you take him? I never had the chance to say goodbye. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I never had the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, and how much I need someone like you around for the sake of my sanity.

Ajji Chachu is in China with a golden key holding a piece of KFC while interviewing my future husband.

I want him to knock on my door and tell me it was all a bad joke. I want to wake up from this nightmare and find him sitting next to me to comfort me.

I hold a purple amethyst bracelet made of gold. It’s the one Ajji Chachu and Lubna Khala sent me when I graduated from college in Wales. All of a sudden it has more power, more meaning, and more memory. All of a sudden it’s the only thing I have that reminds me of him materially. All of a sudden all I can think of is him.

Grieving in a foreign land that doesn’t acknowledge death and loss. Grieving in Toronto on Sentinel and Finch hoping that writing will ease my pain. Grieving away from everyone else. Crying alone desperately wanting a hug. Crying while hugging a stuffed cat.

I’m pickling my memories in foreign land. I’m placing them in a jar in my head, allowing them to change and gain more flavour with time.

Never will the death of any biological uncle affect me as much. Obligation and duty to family never touched my soul as much as Ajji Chachu’s love did. No “real” uncle ever believed in me. No real uncle ever took me seriously. No real uncles cares as much as Ajji Chachu did and I believe still does.

I can imagine the pain everyone else who knew him feels. He touched everyone just by his presence. Those of us who knew him love him unconditionally and we always will. From now until I see you again I know I will miss you and nothing will ever replace the hole in my heart. If I die tomorrow I hope you, Dada and Dado are there to welcome me. I hope you’re all stretching out your arms and leading me through the next life. You were all there when I was born. I know you will all be there when I die.

From now on… everything is in memory… Azhar Malik 1951-2003. On 11th June the world truly lost a great man.

I honour you and your life. I hope I can make you proud.

Love,
Nabiha Meher

A response to stupid questions about Women’s Studies

I have a degree in Women’s Studies. What’s that you say? You aren’t the first person to ask. Every time I bump into a desi person, especially a Pakistani, and tell them what my degree is in, their first reaction is to laugh and stare at me in disbelief. Somehow no one seems to believe that a major devoted to a feminist cause could possibly exist, and if it does, then why on a earth would a Pakistani want to major in “such a thing” since, according to a lot of narrow minded people I have met, it seems to be a major with which I will never be able to get a job. However, I believe that due to the excess amount of Pakistanis majoring in IT and CS, there will be a plethora of these graduates that will be left unemployed and will eventually end up driving cabs.

What I find really funny is people’s comments about my major. Someone once asked me why I’m studying women when I am one. He reasoned that men should take the courses I take in order to understand women. Another person asked me if I believed in human rights (as if women are separate from humans?!), and yet another looked at me and very seriously asked, “Don’t you think the situation in Afghanistan and Iraq is more serious?” People have asked me if I enjoy “academic male bashing”, since according to their narrow perceptive, feminists have nothing better to do in life apart from swear at men all day long. Others just assume that all feminists wish to create a matriarchy in society, not knowing that a hegemony of any sort goes against feminist ideologies and principles.

I think most people’s perceptions of feminists are that we are emotionally distressed women who have nothing better to do than talk about how repressed we are all day long. However, I do believe that the majority of Pakistani males I meet are extreme misogynists, especially in front of strong women. Feminism in its most basic form is nothing but the desire to make the world a better place for women to live in. The misogynists who condemn me for only concentrating on women instead of poverty, racial conflicts and “repressed men” are not willing to step off their pedestals for their own wives, mothers or daughters, and yet they claim they will willing do so for someone from a class lower than theirs and a different race. The feel that they need to control their women, like pet bitches, laying rules for each and every single aspect of their lives, which includes who they should love and touch. All these ludicrous restrictions, such as what a woman can wear, what she can do and cannot do, are meant to be for her “own good”. This sort of attitude has messed up our country to a great extent, and not many people are willing to change. We kill women for any violation of honour, like a fleeting hello with a strange man. We kill women for money, we sell our souls, our pride, we have no values and yet we preach religion.

What’s even worse is the amount of families I have met who claim to be “progressive, liberal and free thinking” when all they are an extreme confusion of the west and the east. They feel that by dressing like westerners and speaking their language they are great examples to the community around them. Yet, they keep their females under lock and key, monitoring their lives (and phone calls), and are more concerned about the daughter’s jahez than anything else. A female Einstein could be born in their midst and they would let her dress like him, but once she hits about 22 they would marry her off and then pressure her to become a baby machine.

However the worst of the lot are the women who have the ability and power to make a change and do not do so. These include the educated women who decided to give up on careers and settle for meaningless socialising after having bagged a rich man. Apparently children can’t be brought up properly unless the mother isn’t doing anything in her life. Ironically, most of these women have an endless stream of nannies who take care of the children, and all the so-called home maker does is look at them once in a while (when she isn’t too busy with the darzi that is). Some refuse to breast feed their babies because it takes up too much of her time and they feel restricted when they have to be with their baby all the time. They probably wouldn’t have had the damn child unless they hadn’t been pressured to, their attitude seems to suggest. Unfortunately most of these women then go on to join the aunty club and start an endless cycle of aunty hood by producing more and more aunties. Yet, the ones I feel deserve the most condemnation are the ones who are the advocates for arranged marriages, who put females on display like prized horses at a grooming show, completely marginalizing women as human beings. Unfortunately these women live in a delusion where they insist that arranged marriages work better than those where two people decide to come together in a union of love out of their own free will. Every time I hear that statement I think to myself that arranged marriages work because they people who entered them didn’t really do it out of choice, and that even if they are miserable, most of the time they continue to live in a bad marriage because of the taboo placed on divorce by our society. Also, families raise girls to be completely obedient, regardless of the situation she is in. It is a well known fact that a Pakistani woman will go to extremes to make her marriage work, otherwise, regardless of the cruel things that happened to her, she will be the one labelled “the bitch”. It’s unfortunate that these women are brought up to believe that her husband comes before her and that his needs are more important than hers. What’s even worse is that this is a plague that has infested the entire country, even the so-called liberal, progressive thinkers.

So next time you encounter a feminist and decide to start making stupid comments about feminism (which you probably don’t know much about), then watch out, we have a lot to say and are not afraid of saying it.

Just another rant…

I had to struggle with the fact that it wasn’t my fault. I had to deal with the anger and the pain and so I repressed it. I let it flow and felt the anger take over all of me. And now I realize that it wasn’t me but you.

You who shaped me, moulded me and tried to get me to conform to what you believe is right. You who suppresses, who loves, who is the mother, the father, the child, the wise elderly, the doctor, the labourer, the rebellious teenager, the educated, the beggar, the corrupt, the honest, the hard worker, the leech, the scrooge and the philanthropist. You who lays down that rules that must be followed which include every aspect of my existence from the amount of clean air I breathe to the person I love (and how). You who controls what restrictions should be imposed upon me “for my own good”: what clothes I should wear, where I should go, who I should associate with, what I can eat, what I can do; what I cannot achieve because there is an endless list of what I must not do. These are the restrictions that you have imposed upon me purely because of my sex.

It is you who allows me to be viewed as an object rather than person. You treat my kind as animals rather than thinking reasoning humans with minds of their own. It is you who makes the streets unsafe for us to walk on. Public places meant for leisure are places where we feel highly insecure. Even in our homes we are not safe. In our homes we suffer all sorts of abuse that ranges from sexual abuse to mental threats. Beatings, burnings, acid faces, incest and other forms of violence. Don’t tell me about your long hard day at work. I have a daughter who has just been molested, a sister who has just been burnt, a friend who has lost her face because acid was thrown on it and I am the victim of constant rape, but since it is by my husband, it is not considered wrong.

Thinking about liberation is not right. Talking about wanting rights that will make our position in society better for us as individuals, rather than role model daughters, wives and mothers is dismissed as ludicrous by you. By you who I keep referring to, I don’t just mean the males among you, I also mean the women who have the ability and the power to make a change but prefer avoiding conflict. By you I mean the educated ones who decided to give up on careers and settle for meaningless socialising after having bagged a rich one. By you I mean those who once felt the blazing desire to change their position, but have now lost all their idealism. By you I mean those who have the resources to help but prefer to turn a blind eye. By you I mean the aunties to raise their daughters to fall into the same disgusting cycle. By you I mean those who advocate arranged marriages where females are put on display like prized horses at a grooming show. By you I mean the ones who will willingly allocate a lot more resources for their sons rather than their daughters. By you I mean the ones who stay silent. By you I mean those who allow horrific acts to occur before your very eyes because it serves your purpose. By you I mean those who don’t encourage those of us devoting our lives to make this world a better place for you and your children… those who scoff at the idea of women’s studies… those who say that there is no need for feminism, but there is a need for human rights. If you can’t place your own women in your position, if you can’t lower your pedestal for you own mother, wife and daughter, how are you going to do so for those who do not belong to the same class and religion as you?

Why Weddings Distress Me

My brother declares with manly arrogance, “I too would have a caesarean” which inevitably causes me to remark: “Well I would hope you wouldn’t try pushing a child out of your penis”. His face swells up since after declaring his preferred method of birth he proceeded to take a large sip of water. The very second I finish my sentence, a jet of water was streaming out of his mouth and he was howling with laughter, tears streaming down his face, my cousins giggling nervously by his side. The whole evening was already bothering me; the atmosphere though relaxed was the same superficial one that I somehow can not get accustomed to even though I’ve lived in it since I was born non-casesareanly. We were watching videos of my cousin’s mehndi and looking at pictures of the wedding, causing me to relive all the irritation I felt only a week ago. I sat there thinking, why is it always the same, the same, the same fucking thing… these five thousand weddings of Lahore glorifying human stupidity. As I saw myself on screen, wearing diamonds and a dress that was horrendously expensive, my fat form swaying in a crowd of conformity, I realised for the umpteenth time that we really were all sheep bleating to our deaf selves. Choreographed dances ripped off from Bollywood movies that frankly look like aerobics, robotic stiffness, faces pinched with concentration from trying to remember every like butt shake, every little jump, vying to get it all right as if it really means something when deep down we all know it doesn’t.

I know the tension and aggravation I felt was present throughout all the ceremonies because I was there, analysing these ostentatious ceremonies with my ever ready feminist gaze. Its my own fault for being there, for getting involved, knowing I will forever chastise myself for being just another part of the flock, just another little speck of dust amidst the madness that we indulge in only to validate our largely meaningless existence. I will admit there were moments when I did enjoy myself, slightly inebriated dancing normally, not robotically. And yet… the irritation that refuses to let my mind rest still lies active under my skin. It has taken on the form of a beast ravaging not only my mind but also my body. I can not sleep again and my right leg and foot hurts now. There’s a bizarre heaviness in my already abundant chest making my massive breasts swell and hurt. I’m always the first to admit that I am truly delusional, but I have to be because I live in a mad bad world and the last family wedding readily confirmed it for me.

Some one once theorized that weddings bring out the worst in me because I know I’ll never have one since no one will marry a feminist. Despite knowing that I would never voluntarily inflict a large chaotic affair on my family and on my own self, I took it to heart. “Think about it Nabs,” he snorted, “your last relationship was disastrous. Didn’t the guy’s family threaten to disown him if he became too seriously involved in the relationship?” Eventually a sane voice from my own head came up with a better and far more believable theory that didn’t rely on past relationships, my commitment phobia or any other factor related to men. Simply put this voice was devoid of emotion when it told me: “Nabiha Meher you hate weddings because they go against much of what you believe in. You hate weddings because of your personal highly idealistic and feminist beliefs. You hate weddings because the of the sheer waste: time, money, energy and emotions. You hate weddings because your brain starts working overtime, first by analysing every little thing that happens, and then by trying to suppress the thoughts it has permanently lodged in your brain. You hate weddings because you see the world differently, from an unusual perspective.” And there’s nothing wrong with that. So I’m writing to heal and hoping that maybe, just maybe, another soul like me might just come across this and truly understand that it comes from a place of pain and aggravation trying to find an outlet and is not the diatribe of a lunatic man hating vagina loving feminist that is bound to be labelled.

My cousin’s jehaiz had to be taken in a truck. Nineteen large boxes of items she will need in her new home and trunks of clothes so that her husband never has to buy her any. According to my sister she has enough unstitched cloth to clothe her grandchildren. She even took items that we, the elite of Paki-land, use every day: large and small chaani (for tea and pakoras of course), wooden garlic and lemon presses, enough plates to throw a feast with, and my favourite item: toilet bowl cleaner. You know the blue thing that cleans as you flush; very useful item keeps the pot hygienic. Yes, indeed, we Paki women do indeed need these items when we get married. After all one surely can’t expect one’s future husband’s house to have the basics like bed sheets, sewing kits, Band-Aids, kettles, plates, toilet bowl cleaner, shampoo, toothpaste, garlic press, and the ever so necessary chaani. I have a sinking feeling that the inheritance that my mother and her sisters were not fully paid was probably used to finance this grand wedding and dowry. My father put the idea into my head when I was venting about the idiosyncrasy of feeling obliged to provide one’s husband with strainers and other ALREADY PRESENT and/or easily available kitchen tools and toilet bowl cleaners. The idea is stuck now. Like a stubborn bubble gum on the heel of my shoe or in my hair. No matter how hard I try to get rid of it, the residue remains to remind me and enrage me. My cousin also didn’t sign a pre-nuptial. If her husband ever throws her out, she can’t really legally get her chaani back.