Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [1]
I was just a seven-year-old child living in a tiny apartment in Lahore, Pakistan. I couldn’t get enough of Koh-e-Qaf.
“What happens there?” I asked Ammi. “Please tell me! Please!”
“It’s a safe place where I can gather my thoughts,” she said. “When women go there, we don’t take our earthly concerns with us. We don’t even need our earthly clothes. Allah restores to us the cuticle skin we had when He first created Hazrat Adam and his wife, Havva.”
Ammi said that Koh-e-Qaf was created secretly at the time the universe was made. Allah had asked each one of His creations whether they would be willing to bear the burden of free will. He asked the mountains and they said no. He asked the skies and they refused. He asked the sun and the seas and the plants and the trees and the angels. They all said no. But Adam, the first male—“who took too many risks just like your Pops”—accepted the burden. “And he didn’t even ask his wife what he was getting into!” Upon hearing the news, a chagrined Havva went to Allah and told Him that men would make a big mess of things and “then take out their frustration on their wives.” So, for all the wives of the world, Havva convinced Allah to create Koh-e-Qaf, a sanctuary for all time.
“Then she made Allah give long nails to women so they could remember their special place.”
“That’s not fair,” I said, poking a finger through Ammi’s curly black hair. “I don’t have a special place to go to.”
“You don’t need a special place,” she replied. “My little piece of the moon is more special than the whole world.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not,” she said. “Haven’t you ever thought about what your name means?”
“Abir?”
“Your full name. Abir ul Islam.”
“So what? It’s just a name.”
“Not just a name.”
I shrugged. Compared to intergalactic travel and teleportation and heavenly drinks, my name didn’t inspire much awe.
“Come on,” Ammi said, taking my hand as if she could read the disappointment on my face. “You don’t believe me? Let’s go see Beyji. She will tell you that you are the most special.”
Beyji was my maternal great-grandmother. She lived in a white marble bungalow in Lahore. She was a saint because she had forgiven the woman who used black jadu to kill Beyji’s husband. Beyji regularly met with the Holy Prophet Muhammad in her dreams. One year, during the Night of Power in the month of Ramzan, she got chosen as one of Allah’s elect and saw a glimpse of the Light.
Ammi led me past my grandfather’s room, where he was busy listening to old Noor Jahan recordings, and toward Beyji’s darkened quarters. We went inside and Ammi pushed me toward Beyji’s bed. She wore a floral print shalwar kameez—loose trousers with a tunic top—and had cast a gauzy blue dupatta over her head. Taking my wrist with one hand and holding my chin with the other, she gave me a smile. Her gummy mouth murmured a series of prayers.
“Beyji,” Ammi said. “This one doesn’t believe me when I tell him that he’s special.”
“The most special,” Beyji corrected.
“I told him that his name is Abir ul Islam.”
“Such a beautiful name, isn’t it?”
“He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal.”
“Is that right?” Beyji looked at me for confirmation.
I made my case. “Ammi flies around like a parri and goes to Koh-e-Qaf. I just sit here.”
Beyji looked at me with compassion. She pulled a piece of dried orange out from under her pillow and handed it to me. “Come and sit with me,” she invited. “Then ask your Ammi to tell you the story of your birth.”
“What about it?”
“She’ll tell you,” Beyji said.
Ammi sat down on the other bed and rested a cup of chai on the palm of her hand. With two fingers she pinched the cream congealed on the surface.
“When I was pregnant with you,” Ammi said, licking her fingers, “Pops moved to Saudi Arabia for work. When he was there, he went to the Ka’ba in Mecca and made a mannat. Do you know what a mannat is?”
“No.”
“A mannat is like a covenant with Allah. You promise to do something if Allah grants one of your wishes.”
“Like a jinn in a lamp!”
“Except God imposes conditions!