Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [85]
By the time we finally returned home from dinner, the Islam inside me was gasping for air. It seemed as if everything Karachiites did led them away from religion. Why did they pay so much attention to cricket, for example? It was a mindless sport that wasted the mind and kept people from worshipping God. Why did some of the programming on TV feature a mixture of Urdu and English—and more important, why had Pakistanis made English an official language? This was an Islamic country, wasn’t it? The only official language should’ve been Arabic, the language of the Quran.
That night I dug into my books and found the gleaming orange cover of The History of Islamic Philosophy, by Majid Fakhry. Just holding the book restored some of my security. Opening its pages, I read about Imam Ashari, who vanquished the Rationalists; and al-Ishraqi, the founder of Illuminationism, a non-rational Islamic theology; and al-Ghazali, who vanquished the Philosophers; and Ibn Taymiya, who showed that Muslims didn’t need logic because it was a Greek invention. I glanced through all the authentic Arabic and Persian scholars over history, and finding the name of Iqbal, the spiritual founder of Pakistan, at the very end of that list gave me a sense of comfort. It proved that Pakistan was part of the long, flowing river of Islam—indeed, its culmination.
I concluded that Pakistanis who weren’t true to this history weren’t being true to themselves.
The next night Uncle Saad took us to a big-time party at a superior’s house. The event was like something out of 90210 or Melrose Place. There were gleaming cars outside the enormous house, and servants in pressed uniforms ran around addressing every need. The event itself was in the garden, where food was served under white tents. Outside the tents there were countless round tables, laid out banquet style with fine china, and courteous waiters. The garden was stunning in its lushness, its damp geometry, and its crisply trimmed edges. Roses of all colors, as well as long rows of chambaylis and numerous other flowers, were banked against the main house, which gave off a golden luminosity from the chandeliers inside.
The main event at the party was a game of bingo organized by a couple of professionals. They passed out bingo cards to anyone who was interested and then spun a huge wheel with great aplomb. Uncle Saad quickly picked up a card for himself and began playing.
I wandered away from the table and went toward a corner of the garden where some young people were milling about.
As I got near them I stopped in my tracks. The guys were all wearing Western clothes—dress shoes, pressed slacks, and crisp, collared shirts with ties. The girls were variously dressed in tight chiffon dresses, backless shalwar kameezes, and knee-length skirts. I crinkled up my nose at their immodest attire.
As I turned away to head back in, I saw a face I recognized: it was the chador-clad girl from the airplane—the one I had found so beautiful in her modesty. Now she was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a skimpy tank top, cut off at the midriff to show off a diamond-encrusted navel ring. I could see one edge of her thong as she sashayed over toward the group of teenagers. She didn’t seem to recognize me but gave me a nice smile anyway.
Feeling almost ill from the encounter—I felt she had betrayed all of Islam—I went to look for Ammi, who was off chatting with my aunt.
“Why don’t we go to the desert?” I suggested. “We should go and see Dada Abu and Dadi Ma.”
“I’ve been trying to persuade them to fly out here instead,” she said. “It’s a hellish trip to the desert.”
“But there’s nothing for us to do in Karachi,” I said flatly.
“We’re here to try to find you a good girl to marry. Uncle Saad told me he’s informed some of his colleagues that we’re looking. You’re an American citizen, which should be a draw. You’ll have plenty of luck here, I think. In fact, there are some girls over there,” she said, pointing toward the group