Debbie goes to Peshawar

1.

It must have been late September of 1966. I was very young then, in the second year of my nursing course and had recently moved in the only international student’s hostel in Liverpool, England. It was open to both men and women, very unusual in those days. It was popular because the location was convenient for the University and the city centre. There were many cultural facilities within walking distance.

The buzz among the girls in the residence was pretty close to deafening. All of us were talking about Noob, the only son of a warlord in Pakistan. He was rumoured to be a little more than twenty, tall and handsome, so fair could pass for a Brit, even had blue eyes we were told. Lived in a fortress in Peshawar, had more servants than Prince Charles. Needed to be trained on how to put on his clothes and use the cutlery before leaving for ‘Vilayat’ - overseas. Mothers and sisters cried for days when the Warlord decided his successor needed education in a British University. Who told us all these stories? I for one can’t tell who told me first. We told each other, not once, not twice, dozens of times. It was exciting and the excitement just kept growing. I am sure every girl was planning the ways to corner him. I even went and bought two skirts and a dress like those Twiggy was modeling; skirts barely covered the underwear and you had to watch when sitting down.

I missed the alarm and had to rush for breakfast; must have been dreaming of my Noob from Peshawar. I took the only space that was available, next to a stranger, a short young man who could be any of the hundreds of students from the Indian subcontinent. He looked straight at his empty plate and was distinctly uncomfortable when I sat down. I felt an urge to make this new arrival comfortable. “I am Debbie, studying to be a nurse,” I said offering my hand for the handshake.

He shivered and pulled as far away as he could without paying attention to my hand which still had a faint odour of soap. “I am Ahmed. I have just arrived from Peshawar. As a follower of Muhammad I am not allowed to talk to women who are not our relations.” With that he started buttering a slice of toast. I rubbed my left cheek and picked up the knife and fork. “So this is the Noob all the excitement was about. The handsome prince turned out to be a frog. What a shame,” I said to myself.

A few weeks went by. I was in the laundry room one morning loading clothes in the dryer when Ahmed walked in, his eyes admiring his toes peeping through the sandals. He was carrying a bag overflowing with clothes. He looked at the washing machine as if it had just dropped from the moon. I took pity on this “short, rude, crude and ugly to boot brownie” as disappointed girls called him and asked, “Do you want me to show you how it works?”
“Yes please, if you don’t mind,” he muttered, his eyes still focused on his toes.
“Look, don’t think I am being rude. You have come all this way to live and learn with us. You will have to stop being silly and start treating women with some respect. They won’t eat you. They might help you in many ways that will make your life a bit easier without your principles or your religion being compromised. Think over it. Now this is where ….” And I showed him how to wash his clothes. He said “Thank you very much” almost in a whisper still staring at his toes. I gave him up as a lost cause and stalked out.

It was later that week that I got the shock of my life. I was lining up for dinner when Ahmed came over to me. He was not staring at his toes but not facing me either. “I am sorry for my rude behaviour. Quran tells us to respect women and specifically forbids rudeness. I have been rude. If you will forgive me and forget the past, I will make amends, I promise you.”

I could not believe my ears. Neurons in my head starting racing faster.. Wonder how he intends to make amends. Perhaps he will ask me for a date. I have never dated a shorter man. So what? Here is my chance to make a foreigner feel comfortable in a strange land. The storm subsided and I said, I hope the right thing, “Oh! Don’t worry. It is very difficult to move into a different culture and know what to do. I would be just as awkward, if not more, if I went to Pakistan.” With that I offered my hand for a handshake. He gently took my hand in his and held on till I pulled it away. “Oh God, how can a man have such soft hands” I said to myself.

Now that the rumours about his appearance had turned out to be false, I took the opportunity to check those about his royal status. Over dinner I asked him about his life in Peshawar and he confirmed many of the stories. He was the only son of a tribal leader, he had two male servants to bathe and dress him, his wish was the command, not only for dozens of servants meekly serving the family and the constant stream of visitors but also for his mother and three sisters who insisted he spent a lot of time with them in Janana, the part of the house reserved for ladies and where a male could enter only when invited. In public, even at home when male guests were present, the ladies covered their faces with something like a loose tea cozy, only it had a strip of netting around the eyes so they could see others but others could not see them. This imprisonment of women annoyed me.
“How can you justify this system? It is enslavement of women.”
“Oh no, just the contrary. It protects women from male ogling and misbehaviour. Quran instructs us males to protect the females. This is the method sages devised and we have been practicing for centuries,” Ahmed responded with a straight face.
“How can a woman do any work with face covered like that. Surely most women have to earn a living and do chores at home. Not every one can have servants. What about female servants?”
“They get accustomed to Burqa and find it quite convenient. The separation of male and female spheres is very strict. Women don’t cover the faces when there are no men around.”
“It is a way to keep women in permanent bondage. I will like to learn about the religion that treats half of its followers so abominably.”
“Well, I will be happy to explain to you the key elements of Islam. It will take between half and an hour. Perhaps we could do it next Saturday. Tell me the time and I will get my room ready.”
“That is great. I will ask Liz if she will join me. She is interested in religion. We will come to your room after lunch.”


2.

Saturday arrived at its own pace. As I had anticipated, Liz was delighted to join me. We lingered over coffee to allow time for Ahmed to get organized. An elevator jerkily took us to the top floor and Liz knocked on the corner room. We had heard that this was the biggest and most expensive room in the hostel and we were looking forward to the views of the city and the University from windows on two sides. Come in, we heard Ahmed’s voice on the speaker. Liz opened the door and our mouths fell open.

There was a bed sheet hanging in the middle of the room; a makeshift curtain dividing the room in two. On our side were two chairs facing the sheet and we could see the silhouette of Ahmed on the other side. We heard his voice, “I had to do this because Quran prohibits males and females who are not closely related from being in the same private room. Please make yourself comfortable and we can start our discussion. Is there any particular topic you want to start with?”
Liz was quite frank, “It is hard to be comfortable with a sheet separating us from you. May be you can start with the reasons Quran had for treating women as untouchables and why they are still valid?”

I can not recollect the details of the discussion but I do remember that, thanks to aggressive queries of Liz, it lasted for over two hours. We agreed to disagree on social issues that Liz raised and Ahmed answered clearly but unconvincingly. We did learn a lot about the history of Islam and the principles preached by the Prophet. Leaving Ahmed to rearrange the room Liz and I walked over to the nearby park. We complimented each other on our good fortune that we were not born in an Islamic culture and could interact with the whole of humanity, not just our half. It would be a miserable life without boyfriends, even worse having to marry at puberty.

At dinner time the administrator announced that two complimentary tickets were available to the residents for a concert of twentieth century classical music, courtesy of the Rotary club. Foreigners were to be given preference. The diners were struck dumb when Ahmed raised his hand. No one expected Ahmed to go to any musical event, leave alone one of modern classical music. He couldn’t have known what he was asking for. Most residents thought he deserved what he would get. Administrator managed to suppress her smile as she handed him the tickets and the problem of finding someone who will go with him.

He found a sucker. It was me. He cornered me after dinner. “Will you be kind enough to accompany me; you can explain what the music means.”
I was no fan of classical music, leave alone Stravinsky and Schonberg. I could tolerate three Bs, and three Ms under duress but that was it. Trying to find a way out without hurting his feelings, why I cared I can not fathom to this day, I asked, “how is it that a follower of your faith can not discuss its teachings with women without a sheet in between, but can go out on a date with them?”
“It is not a date, just an innocent outing to a cultural event. Quran does not say anything about such visits. In fact it encourages the interactions between a teacher and a student.”
I did not believe a word of what he said. He was twisting some stray saying for his purpose. Still, I was not doing anything important that evening, “OK, I will take the ticket. But don’t expect lessons from me. I have heard the music but my music education is Grade 5 piano. I don’t like, leave alone understand, this music.”

It must have been amusing to see a tall platinum blonde of bleached skin in a miniskirt and high heels with a short dark skinned young man with oily black hair parted perfectly in the middle and dressed in white tight pajamas with hundreds of horizontal folds and black Sherwani, long tight coat reaching the knees. It was just as well that he was chatty and oblivious to strange and sometimes hostile glances directed at us. It occurred to me that his loneliness may have been getting to him and he was using a rare opportunity to exercise his vocal muscles. Therefore, I did not have to say much, about the music or anything else. Fortunately, most of the concert was Mahler’s Seventh symphony which is not bad compared to most of the music of that kind. I have no idea what the other noise was. All told it turned out to be a reasonable evening; I learnt what the loneliness in a strange country can do to cultural aspects of faith. Ahmed must have enjoyed it too. He thanked me profusely when we got back to the hostel. I do remember my dreams having a little romantic tinge that night.

He seemed to have developed an unquenchable thirst for Western culture. He invited me to accompany him to some or the other show once or twice every week. We went to tragic and comic theatre, opera, concerts, ballet, you name it. He avoided pop music performances like a pork chop; perhaps that was compromising his faith too much. He thanked me after every show and we separated without so much as a handshake.

Christmas was on the horizon and students were planning the holidays. I was going home for a week. Walking back from a performance of The Flying Dutchman I asked him what he was doing over the holidays. “Oh, I will catch up with my studies. We do call Christmas the Big Day but do not celebrate it.”
“Well, you can come with me to Nefyn. It is a little village on the coast about three hours bus ride from here. I am sure my parents will be happy to meet a future Nawab.”
“Don’t give them such ideas. My father is a tribal chieftain, not a Nawab. Nawabs disappeared with the British. If your parents can stand a stranger for a week I will accept your invitation. Just make sure I am not served bacon at breakfast. Fried eggs will do with toasts buttered on both sides.”

That is how we got to be riding on a bus on a cold but sunny afternoon to the seaside home of my parents. Ahmad was careful to avoid the physical contact and apologized, a little hypocritically I thought, every time a bump or a bend on the road pushed us against each other.

Ahmed was heartily welcomed by my parents. It surprised me somewhat because he was perhaps the first foreigner to cross the threshold of that house. After tea and digestive biscuits mom showed him his room in the attic. He expressed admiration for the view and gratitude for her hospitality. Mom seemed pleased by his courteous manners and pleasant personality. But this impression lasted only till the bed time. I was lying in my bed comfortably tucked in, Mom sitting on it. We are talking about my days away from home in general terms when she became serious, “You need to watch out you do not become serious with this friend of yours.”
“Why Mom? He is a nice young man, his father is a big man in Pakistan. He is a bit short but nice company, a brilliant student. He has not made any serious advances, not even a peck on the cheeks. Says we do not date but go on innocent outings.”
“I am glad to hear that. Dad and I would worry if you two became serious. It is not only our only child going to Pakistan and living with those strange people and us rarely getting to see our grandchildren. Who knows? He may already have a wife at home. They do marry early you know.”
“Mom, you don’t have to worry about his wife at home. First, In Pakistan he is allowed four wives. Second, the youngest wife has all the privileges.”
Mom got up and left without a word. I heard her muffled sobs from the parents’ room other side of the wall with a large framed photograph of a young couple with a few days old baby.

3

The week in Nefyn changed Ahmed. On our way back he held my hand and when I pulled his hand over my shoulder he moved to establish a close contact. This was the first realization on our part that the acquaintance had romantic undertone. In a few weeks we acknowledged to ourselves and to each other that we were in love. Ahmed wrote to his father in May about this young white girl he was ‘fond’ of. The alarm bells rang in Peshawar. The girl had to be approved by the family before his fondness broke the bounds of propriety. “Will she be allowed to travel to Peshawar by her parents?” he was asked.

After shedding enough tears to flood the living room, Mom agreed to let me go ‘on a fact finding visit’ so long as we promised with my hand on the Bible and Ahmed’s on Quran that we will be gone only for three weeks. To make sure, as much as he could, Dad got the ticket with time limited return. But our problems had only begun.

Ahmed started to behave like a Pakistani husband even though we were not even engaged yet. One day, he showed me a long head to toe dress – yes, head to toe not shoulder to toe. “You will have to wear it when you go out in Peshawar or when men are around at home. May be you should practice a little so you can walk without stumbling.”
I looked at the tent with a little opening at the top. “Tents are to live in when you are camping, not to wear. If you think I will wear that monstrosity, you are sadly mistaken. I will be dead before I am seen in one of those.”
“You will not be seen. That is the whole idea. You don’t want all those strangers leering at you, do you?”
“Why not? Looks don’t hurt. I would rather be admired for my looks than go around hiding in a tent.”
“What do you want? Go around Peshawar half naked?”
“You don’t have a problem with me going around half-naked in Liverpool. Why should it bother you in Peshawar?”
“Because men in Peshawar are not used to girls going around without any clothes on. You don’t want trouble with rogues any more than me or my family.”
“I was half-naked a second ago. Now I have no clothes on at all. If you want me go all naked in Peshawar, I will do it for you. But I will not wear a tent. Not for you, not for your family. That is final.”
“I can’t take you to Peshawar in a miniskirt. Let us cancel the trip. I will write to tell my family that the whole thing is off. Their sigh of relief will travel half way round the world and you will hear it.”
“Cancel the damn trip if that is what you want. Don’t throw empty threats at me. I have no shortage of men wanting to court me. You are the one who can’t do without me. Think it over before you burn your bridges.’
“There is nothing to think over. Miniskirts and Pakistan don’t match. Will you agree to wear salwar kameez with a dupatta.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. If you tell me what they are I can tell you whether you should waste your money on them or not.”
“Salwar is baggy cotton pants, kameez is a loose full sleeved modest shirt from neck to the knees. Dupatta is a long cotton shawl that goes around your breasts and one end is used to cover the head when older relations are present.”
“I will die of heat wearing all those clothes. I will not wear them. I will not cover my head. I have beautiful hair and I like showing it off. I like men turning around to admire my looks. I will tell you what I will do as a special favour to your family. I will get some skirts which are just cover the knees and are not tight even though I like clothes that show my figure. I will get a couple of half sleeve loose t-shirts. That is as far as I will go.”
“We are getting somewhere. If you get skirts which go to your ankle we could manage it.”
“No way. I can’t walk in full length skirts, never could, never will. I will see if Blackler’s has calf length skirts or dresses. Men in Peshawar will have to imagine rest of me from my calves.”
“It is not the men I worry about; it is the women. All the complaints will come from women. We will face the music when it starts playing.”

Ahmed came shopping with me and was very helpful with colours and fit that could pass muster in his homeland. I had helped to acculturate him, now he was returning the compliment.

4

I changed from my comfy miniskirt and form fitting blouse into cumbersome midi dress before the plane landed in Lahore at dawn. Abba, as Ahmed called his father and I was to call him, was to meet us there and we were to drive 500 kms to Peshawar the same day in a caravan of three cars. An official greeted Ahmed formally on the tarmac as we got off the plane and escorted us past the Immigration and Customs to Abba. Ahmed rushed to his father when he saw him and they hugged each other for a long while. When Abba let him out of his clutches Ahmed turned to face me and said, “Abba, this is my friend from Liverpool, Debbie.” I paid my tribute as Ahmed and I had rehearsed on the plane by bowing deeply with folded hands and uttering words emphasing my humble status, “aadaab arj”. However, Abba either did not wish to or could not hide his discomfort with looking at a female face. We had three meals at roadside restaurants and ten hours in the car but not a word was exchanged between Abba and me. Poor Ahmed, he did not know what to do. May be I should not have been hurt, but I was and wished I had not changed into this inconvenient outfit just to please a man who would not be pleased any way.

It was pitch dark when we got to the family home about half an hour beyond Peshawar. Again Ahmed was welcomed joyously by his mother Amma, sisters and the husbands of two of them and I looked on awkwardly feeling like an intruder. At last Ahmed introduced me to the ladies one by one. They greeted me coldly, almost as if I had arrived from Mars to devour them. The language barrier was not the problem; hostility seemed to ooze out of their pores. I was glad when Ahmed showed me the room I was to occupy. When I asked him why every one was being rude to me, he brushed it off, “They are excited at my homecoming, that’s all. You are being overly sensitive.”
“Leave me alone, I need some sleep,” I huffed and started undressing.

Next morning a maid brought me tea in a metal tumbler. Tumbler was hot and the maid gave me a towel to hold it. It was very creamy and spicy, unusual but not unpleasant. “I will have to get used to their tea, just like their spicy food and haughtiness,” I thought. Two maids showed up in a while to help me through the toilette. My clothes stumped them and they left me to dress myself.

Ahmed came in to show me his family’s “humble abode” as he called it. There was a huge courtyard with rooms on three sides. The fourth side had a large kitchen and storage room for food supplies, milk and water. There was a large very heavy wooden door which, Ahmed told me, separated Janana, women’s quarters, from the men’s domain and the outside world. Men sent a maid to warn the occupants before entering Janana so they could cover themselves. The ladies had to be properly attired in a burqa to go outside. I never got to see the mae’s side of the house. Ahmed said it was similar to Janana except that instead of kitchen and pantry there were two large rooms where Abba met the visitors and conducted his business. There was a large open area in front of the building for the cars, tractors, cattle and horses and the compound was surrounded by thick stone walls with a large gate for gentry and a small one for servants. Both were manned by armed security guards day and night.

Ahmed left and I joined the ladies for breakfast. Two married sisters, Satlaj and Chamba, could manage some English and they explained what was served and showed how to eat it with the fingers. Amma did not say a word to me directly confirming the impression that the hostility was not my imagination alone.

After the breakfast Amma gave Satlaj something that looked like a black mask. She told me it was for me to wear when going out or when men visited Janana. As a demonstration she put it over her head. It covered her face and shoulders with an opening for the eyes. Then she took it off her head and put it on mine. It needed a lot of adjusting for eyehole to match the eyes and did not reach the shoulder. That did not seem to bother Amma and all four ladies looked very pleased. Chamba said I looked great in it. “What of me looks great?” I wondered but did not say.

A maid arrived to warn us that the husbands of young ladies were coming to take them for a visit to their own parents. Satlaj asked me to put the mask on, but I looked dumb and did nothing. Men came in. looked at me and smiled. I got the impression that they liked what they saw and wouldn’t have minded seeing more. I expect Amma got the same impression of them and expressed her fury to the girls. They translated to me but I shrugged my shoulders, got up and left to have a little walk around the courtyard.

Ahmed came in a little later and got the earful from his irate mother. He tried to pacify her but failed miserably. He took me aside and tried to persuade me to wear the mask for his sake. I reminded him of our agreement and repeated my old statement, “Over my dead body.” He went back to his mother and they had a long discussion in hushed voices as if I could decipher their conversation in Pashto. It must have worked because Amma smiled when we sat down for lunch.

Later in the day when the hot sun had gone behind the mountains, I asked Ahmed to show me the village. He asked me, very humbly I must say, to put on the mask to make his life tolerable, I could take it off once we were out of the ‘compound.” I had had my argument for the day, so I covered my face and asked him how I looked. “Just great, now no one has to look at the ground when talking to you,” he said. “Anything to keep peace in the host family,” I thought.

Once past the main gate I took off the mask and breathed easily once more. There was not much to the village, a few stalls, one with the variety of guns openly on display, an artisan weaving a carpet, a carpenter repairing a plough, a boy making local sweets in a huge wok full of fat. It was all new, therefore interesting. Every one stopped whatever they were doing to look at my face or my legs. Wherever the eyes went first there they stayed. I was really amused. “Will their eyes pop out of the socket if I had my miniskirt on,” the thought crossed my mind.

On our return, the mask went back over the head just as we reached the entrance. But the word had reached its destination already. Abba and Amma were sitting on a string bed in the courtyard of Janana with furious looks on their faces. Amma started screaming as soon as she saw us. Abba quietly slipped out and I hid in my room leaving Ahmed to face the storm. It must have been an hour later when Ahmed knocked on the door and asked me to come to the courtyard.

“Several people told my parents that they had seen a half-naked Firangee woman with their son. Firangee is the local term for a detestable foreigner. I was wrong to think that the people will not dare to report on me. Any how, my parents have decided that they don’t mind what you wear in Janana, but you have to be in a Burqa when you go out. Amma thinks the family honour is at stake and Abba thinks he could have a rebellion on his hands ‘if you were not controlled,’” Ahmed said in a hushed guilty voice.
“I am sorry you are in such a pickle. I care for your family’s honour and I do not want a rebellion. But I believe I have nothing to hide, not my face, not my legs, not my hair. If people are uncomfortable looking at them, let them turn the other way. I am not wearing a Burqa. And I am not staying locked up in Janana when there are so many interesting things to see in this beautiful country. In fact I have a good mind to go out in my miniskirt and tight blouse I wore on the plane just to show your family how annoyed I am with their rudeness and lack of concern for their guest’s convenience.”
“Debbie, be reasonable. You have come to this god-forsaken place to win my parents’ approval. The way it is going, we can forget approval. They might boot you out. Then what?”
“Look future Nawab of Peshawar. No one threatens Debbie. If they boot me out and you stay here to lick the soles of their feet and claim your title, good luck to you. I have my ticket and enough money to get to Lahore. Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself. I am not a helpless woman in a tent for a dress.”
“Debbie, no one is threatening you and no one thinks you are helpless. My only interest is to mend relations between you and the family. My parents treasure their only son and wherever we live, I have to treat them with respect. It behooves all of us to get on reasonably well together.”
“If you believe what you say then go and tell your parents to be hospitable, let me find out about their culture, their country. They need to check me out, sure. I need to check them and their surroundings too. I am not a chattel being given to your family to do with me what they please. I am a human with the same rights as you and them. Find out if I am welcome on these terms. If not, get me a taxi to Lahore. I have time to catch a flight tomorrow.”
“My parents are devout Muslims. Only way they know is their traditional way. They are not going to change even if it kills them. The decision is not theirs or yours. It is mine. I must chose between them and you, between East and West, between past and future. More than anything my choice is between tradition and love. The most important lesson I have learnt from you is that love overcomes all hurdles and life without love is like a pitcher without water. Let us pack. We have fifteen minutes to make the next flight.”

Tears were freely shed but no one had the will to turn the tide.