Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [89]
“Pakistan was founded as a haven for Islam,” I protested, my voice raised.
I’d hoped for confirmation from Ammi, but none was forthcoming. She had stopped listening.
I suddenly felt as if my wings had been chopped off.
11
Unwilling to stay housebound, given the torment I felt in proximity to Nyla, I disregarded Dada Abu’s edict and headed out to visit the men of the family at the bazar. My beard had started to come in, though it was far from robust, and I put on a pale yellow topi. Wearing dusty sandals and an old shalwar kameez, I could pass as a native. If I didn’t say anything in my English-accented Urdu, no one would distinguish me from anyone else on the street.
When I got to the mouth of the mohalla and went past the mosque, I heard a yell behind me. “Hey, bhai. Wait, bhai!”
I turned and saw a guy about my age with a beard but no mustache running toward me, his hand holding on to his topi. He had a desperate look on his face. I thought I recognized him as someone from my extended family, but when he came closer I realized I didn’t know him.
“You came from America, right?” he said. “You just got here a few days ago?”
I nodded, apprehensive because he seemed to know so much about me. He picked up on my unease and flashed a big smile.
“You don’t remember me, do you? I know you haven’t seen me in forever. I’m surprised you forgot me, though. Tell me: who did you use to play with when you were little—before you left and became an American?”
I jogged my memory, trying to place his face. Suddenly I remembered the cut of the jaw, the shape of the lips, the excitable eyes, and the broad-shouldered build. It was Ittefaq, one of my buddies from the madrassa years! He was older, weather-beaten, more muscular, bearded, and taller, but it was definitely Ittefaq. I said his name out loud and he happily shook my hand. Then we gave each other an awkward hug.
“I heard that someone came to town from America and wondered if it was you. I’ve been hanging outside your mohalla ever since, hoping to meet up with you.”
The revelation that he had been watching for me struck me as kind of strange, given that we hadn’t told anyone we were coming and that I hadn’t ventured out of the house at all. I told myself that I was being too Western in my suspicion. After all, I knew that Pakistanis liked to stare at one another, which was something people never did in the States. Perhaps Ittefaq’s willingness to wait for me was just another traditional Muslim custom that westoxification had caused me to forget.
“The bazar is still that way, right?” I asked, pointing.
“The bazar? Yes. You’re going to the bazar right now?”
“I’m going to Dada Abu’s shop. That’s where all the men are.”
“The men leave early in the morning,” he said, as if to imply that I was less than a man for waiting this long to go join them. His comment stung.
Wanting to establish my masculinity, I pounded him on the back—harder than I needed to—and then gestured with my head. “Walk with me,” I invited.
As we walked I asked him about what he’d been up to all these years, but he ignored my questions and kept asking me about America. Where did I live? What did I do there? What was it like? Did I go to school? Was I forgetting much of the Urdu language? Did I practice Islam? He asked that last question in an accusatory way.
“Of course I practice Islam!” I said emphatically. The force in my voice seemed to catch him off guard—and this pleased me.
He grinned apologetically. “I was just asking. Just making sure you weren’t a CIA agent!”
He said it in a joking way, but I didn’t think it was funny. I glared and looked away. First he had implied that I was womanly, and now he was essentially calling me a traitor to Muslims.
However, along with my outrage, I also felt insecurity. Ittefaq and the people of Sehra Kush represented the traditional Islamic life that was impossible to attain in the secular West, which made them purer than me, and if they thought that