Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [90]
As we continued toward the bazar, Ittefaq dug into his pocket and produced a little card. With an eager smile he handed it over.
“Check this out,” he said. “It’s something else.”
I took it and inspected it. It was a stamp-sized picture of a topless Bollywood actress. Her mouth was in a sensual pout, her breasts large and glossy.
I admired her for a moment and then handed the picture back to him. I tried to indicate by my expression that I wasn’t interested whatsoever.
“No!” he insisted. “It’s fine. You keep that one. I’ve got more—many more! Put it in your wallet.” He opened his wallet to show me that he’d done the same.
Not wanting to make a big deal about it, I shrugged and tucked the picture into my wallet as suggested.
Together we walked into the bustling bazar. There were hundreds of fruit carts and vendors and guys selling roasted corn and sugarcane juicers with windmill machines and little boys squatting at the street-side faucets washing pots by hand. Letting memory lead me, I walked toward Dada Abu’s shop.
Ittefaq put his hand on my shoulder. “I have to go see my uncle,” he said, pointing in the other direction. “You come with me. Let’s go to his shop. There’s chai and food there.”
I didn’t want to start exploring the city without touching base with my relatives first, so I asked him for directions to his uncle’s shop. “I’ll come there after I go and sit with my grandfather.”
He nodded reluctantly. “Make sure you come,” he said. “We’ll eat and drink.”
After saying my farewells, I pressed through the crowd to Dada Abu’s store. I found him sitting in the back of the shop. He smiled when I arrived and pulled me into his sitting room by my wrist. After getting me a cup of chai, he began asking me questions.
“Why didn’t your father come with you to Pakistan?”
“He had to work,” I explained. “He gets only a certain amount of time off.”
“He’s always worked hard,” Dada Abu said nostalgically. “When he was a child, he was the only one of my sons who was serious about studying. He was an example for everyone, but not everyone followed his example.”
“He still likes studying,” I said, recalling the way Pops had pored over his residency books.
“He must make you and your brother study hard.”
“Oh, he does!”
“That’s good. Very good. You must know that I’m an illiterate man. I only know business. I can sell anything, but being a salesman is low-class. Your father did right. He went and became a doctor.”
I nodded.
“What do you want to be?” asked Dada Abu, looking at me intently.
“I want to be an Islamic scholar,” I said.
“No,” he said, “for your profession. A man needs a profession. Everyone can study Islam.”
I tried to explain to him that I would get an advanced degree in Islamic philosophy and become a professor. Dada Abu shook his head.
“Not a good idea,” he said. “Mosques and madrassas are good for worship, and it’s good to be a Muslim scholar, but a man can’t make money from Islam. That’s not allowed by God. You can’t use the religion for money. So I ask you, what will you do for money?”
“I’ll study law,” I said, hoping to reassure him.
“Yes!” He nodded eagerly. “Yes, that is an honorable profession. Allama Muhammad Iqbal and Muhammad Ali Jinnah—founders of Pakistan. They were both barristers. Gandhi was a lawyer also.”
Satisfied with my answer, he leaned back and lit his hooka. Then he closed his eyes again, gripping the nozzle of the hooka with his left hand. He smoked the bitter tobacco, causing it to smolder. The water gurgled softly. I leaned against the far wall and relaxed. A soothing tedium buzzed in the air, and the noise in the bazar sounded far away, a distant din of clattering feet and murmuring voices. As I looked through the shop toward the bazar beyond, I could see the hot loo—the infamous wave of noontime desert heat—emanating from the pavement; it gave the atmosphere a shimmering quality.