Me and My Uncle

The fortnight had come to its final day: The day to begin my journey back home, to life as it really is, had arrived. Though known and anticipated, it arrived abruptly.

Eid-al-Azha had begun the prior day. Sacrificial animals, populating street corners, grassy medians, and parking lots, had left already, gone as suddenly as they arrived ten days prior.

On the evening of the first day of Eid, while Uncle Ramiz and I went on a walk, the streets ran with blood, down driveways of suburban Islamabad homes, looking surprisingly like red paint. 

That was yesterday. It rained hard overnight, and then again during the day, rinsing the driveways and streets, cleansing animal blood and droppings. 

Our sacrifice was conducted by the butcher, the korbani. Sahib Jan had picked out a goat a few days earlier. The shop was walking distance from Ramiz Chacha’s house and en route from the masjid where Sahib Jan and I attended Eid prayers in the morning.

Sahib Jan told me the korbani needed permission to execute the goat, so we returned via his shop in a strip of aging retail stores. The parking lot, littered with decapitated heads on the ground, displayed carcasses hanging from trees. Men tugged with knives, separating meat from hide.

I first experienced Eid in Pakistan forty-five years earlier at the age eight, Ramiz thirty-six. My cousins, sister and I gathered in the front yard on a large grass lawn. 

The korbani, massive knife in hand, and sheep lying docile on the ground, ran his knife slowly, back and forth across the sheep’s neck, reciting “La ilaha ill’Allah.” On the third pass blood spurted, bright red, against pure white wool. Horrified, I ran crying, seeking solace. I found it in Ramiz, sitting quietly with his daughter, Sadaf on his lap. 

“Oh! Tell me, “What is the matter?’” he asked me. 

Through tears, I explained what I had witnessed. 

“I don’t like it either,” he said. “That’s why I am here, not watching. Sit here with me, beta,” he said to me. He dried my tears and soothed my soul. 

Later, outside the bathroom window, I saw the skinned carcass suspended from a tree branch. Vowing not to eat any of it, a vow I did not keep, I did manage to avoid the brain, which resembled tuna salad, resisting repeated admonitions.

On walks preceding this Eid, Ramiz shared observations. In response to the animal manure in the streets, which we took care to avoid, he said: “What benefit is there to this?” He forewarned the bad smell that would emerge from the parking lots we walked by where animal slaughters were performed, wafts of stench hitting my nostrils. “Public sanitation should not have to bear the cost of the cleanup,” he told me when we saw a front end loader scooping pelts, heads and other nondescript remnants, into a dump truck. “No, those who have profited should bear the cost.”

I waited outside the store where he buys fresh dahi (yogurt) and lit a Dunhill cigarette. At 220 Rupees, a pack of cigarettes cost just over one U.S. Dollar. I planned to bring home a carton or more.

Abuchacha came down the steps with a clear plastic bag containing two smaller clear bags, each full of freshly scooped yogurt and neatly hand-tied. “Let’s move,” he said. 

“Teek-hey,” I replied as I ground the cigarette cherry under foot and placed the filter in my open pack, preferring not to litter.

At eighty-one, Abuchacha’s stooped height was no more than five feet four inches and his slender build was maybe 130 pounds. Spryly, he walked no less than three kilometers a day, sometimes four, in a regular route from his house, through neighboring residential streets, and crossing busy divided arteries where the normally chaotic traffic of Islamabad flows to and from Rawalpindi, with quiet confidence. “Go now,” he would say, quickening his pace to the point that I was obligated to break into a jog to stay abreast. 

“Abu Chacha,” as I had taken to calling him, “I bet most people half your age could not keep up with you!” 

His humility limited his response to compliments to one of three types: Silence; “Jazak’Allah” (May God Bless you for it), and “Thank God, thanks be to God, Allah ka shukar.” 

In later moments, he recounted stories of his childhood and youth, often crediting Abba Jan, his father, my grandfather, whom I had met only twice, both times in the 1970s, for his notions of fairness and generosity, in particular. 

“Abba Jan taught me,” he would modestly say, in response to an observation about his grammatically impeccable English, his healthy daily habits, or his broad mindedness. 

“I am only sharing perceptions,” he would say, as he might offer cutting insight into the injustice of the world, and, in particular, the tyranny of peer pressure, even among adults, prevalent in the society in which he found himself.

A devout Muslim, he would pray no less than five times a day, observing all of the daily mandatory prayers, and often adding others to his routine as I tended to my fragile business back home via phone and email. 

His prayers were always for others: His parents, Ammabi and Abba Jan, both of whom had departed this world in 1990 and 1997, respectively; his Bhai Jan, my father, whose premature death in 1995 preceded Abba Jan’s; near and dear ones who are still living, including his childless daughter and son-in-law, Sahib Jan, both of whom live in his house, and, most recently, his wife of 49 years, Rehanna, whose departure was sudden when she became ill around this same time (Eid-al-Azha) last year. 

After six weeks of illness and no clear diagnosis, having been hospitalized more than once, she returned home in a wheelchair with no stamina, no appetite, and, ultimately, no capacity to continue in her earthly form. 

Ammi Chachi, as I had taken to call her, left this world, her distraught daughter and loving husband. Her illness coincided with but was unrelated to COVID-19, the global pandemic that had taken so many lives during this same time.

The day before, Abuchacha prepared an early breakfast consisting of dahi, double roti (toast), an apple for each of us, and a fried egg for me. He asked if I would like to see some sights in Islamabad. I readily agreed. Given the holiday weekend, traffic was surprisingly light as he predicted.

We went to Faisal Mosque, arriving around 11am. He was disappointed that we could not go inside: Though the grounds were open, the doors were locked until 12:30pm. After removing our shoes at a shoe check, I thought of taking his picture but saw multiple signs forbidding photography. “What is the harm?” he would say. “This is not a secure area.” We abided nevertheless. 

The marble was cool and smooth on my feet, and it felt good to walk barefoot on the grass towards a line of trees, pines and conifers that provided a most pleasant shade to accompany a delightfully welcome breeze as we stood at the foothills of the mountains known as Margallah Hills. 

“What is the meaning of ‘marg’, Abu Chacha?” I asked him, thinking “Allah” was readily identifiable in the name, which is the case with many words in Urdu: Mash’Allah, Insha’Allah, Jazak’Allah. 

“No, that’s just the name,” he said. I was struck by the similarity of the name of these hills to that of my mother: Margalo, my father’s first wife and the only true love of his life. I kept the observation to myself.

We circled the outside of the mosque barefoot, and then returned to retrieve our shoes. He wore sneakers with his slacks and an untucked short sleeve, collared button down. I wore golf shorts and a polo shirt with Peshawari chuples, a gift this visit. The attendant received 10 Rupees for each pair he stored, less value than an American dime for both pairs.

We put on our shoes. Walking back to the car, Abuchacha told me a story: 

“During the fight for independence in pre-partition India – Mahatma Ghandi – you must have heard of him”

“Of course.” 

“Some people began to criticize him, saying he had changed his views, he was becoming too sympathetic to the Muslims. Do you know what he told them?”

“I do not.”

“He told them, ‘This is a matter of perception.’ Then he took three bowls of water. In the first bowl, he placed cold water. In the second one, fresh— you might say room temperature — water. And in the last one, hot water.

“He told the man, ‘Now put your hand in the cold water.’ And so the man did this. 

“‘And then place it in the fresh water. How does it feel?’

“‘It feels warm,’ the man said.”

“‘Right,’ Ghandi told him. “Now place in the hot water,’ and the man did.

“And again in the fresh water. Now how does it feel?’

“‘It feels cold,’ said the man.”

“‘Right again,’ said Ghandi. ‘You see: Same thing, difference in perception.’”

Driving from Faisal Mosque, still in the high rent district, but before reaching Serena Hotel and the building housing his final post as a civil servant, he abruptly pulled over to the left side of the road and said, “Excuse me. Just a minute.”

The mirrors were not positioned in a way I could see him from the passenger seat, so I cranked my neck around to see what had caught his attention.

Underneath a tree, near a bus stop, was a man, sitting on the ground. By the time I could see the man, Abu Chacha was heading back. 

“How much did you give him?”

“Five hundred rupees.” He paused, engaged the transmission, and pulled onto the road. “I had seen this man before. I believe Allah brought me this way so that I would see this man and could give him that donation.

“Actually, I don’t know. But I believe his needs are genuine. He is not a professional beggar.

“Of course, I am only a fallible human being. It is possible that my perceptions are incorrect.

“That white building,” he pointed through the windshield “was the office for my final post. This was very convenient to the old house.”

He pulled over once again, this time to pull out a thermos with water in it.

“Pani (water)?” He asked.

“Gee,” I responded, “Jazak’Allah.” 

“Shall we go to one other place?”

Beads of sweat coated my forehead. I struggled to stay awake but had to close my eyes, however briefly. Before I could answer, he said, “I am tired too,” he said. “Chellay. Let’s go home.”

Abu Chacha regularly recounted stories from The Holy Quran, particularly relating to the The Holy Prophet, Peace Be Upon Him, and the manner in which he administered justice.

One example he cited as we were out on a walk one evening was that of a woman who approached The Holy Prophet to confess a sin of adultery. The story closely resembles that of a woman taken in adultery whom the scribes and Pharisees bring to Jesus, which ends in no punishment. “He that is without sin among you, let him cast a stone at her.” (John 8:7)

In this story, The Holy Prophet reaches a similar conclusion by virtue of the woman’s approach to confess the sin in the first instance: That she confesses is deemed to be the act of a pious person. That she fell prey to temptation is simply evidence of her humanity. Further, The Holy Prophet, concludes that the requirement of four witnesses, a condition of Sharia law, has not been satisfied (“when would it ever be consensually,” Ramiz asks), and also that to administer a public punishment would be ill advised: It does not serve the community. If anything, publicizing such actions could have the perverse effect of normalizing and promoting such behavior, clearly antithetical to the teachings of The Holy Quran as revealed to The Holy Prophet (PBUH). 

In both stories, the woman is left to go without punishment or outward consequence. It is an act of pure grace, and therefore, Godliness. We are not told, and therefore cannot know, how she may have been changed internally, however. 

These concepts of Justice, he tells me, are central to the teachings of Islam. Ramiz himself gained a reputation for conduct beyond reproach, with impeccable integrity, as he executed his official duties. He was, nevertheless, subjected to pressure by no less than the Prime Minister, at one point, and he refused to acquiesce. He obscured the issue. It was either a conflict of interest or the use of public funds for personal gain. Trained as an economist in Lahore, he spent the majority of his career in the Ministry of Finance.

Ordinary citizens would also approach him, asking if he could do them a “favor.” His response was invariably: “I will study your case, file or request. If you are entitled to what you are requesting, or some version thereof, then it will be provided to you. It is my duty to see that you receive the proper treatment according to the statute or the rule.” In some cases, this approach frustrated the efforts of powerful people, and he would share concerns with his wife. Irrespective of the trepidation he felt, he did not waver. Instead, he put his faith in Allah, and, one way or the other, Allah provided.

After breakfast one morning, we retired to the sitting room, the family room, we might say, being the less formal of two such rooms, the more formal being referred to, ironically enough, as “the living room,” when in fact very little living tends to happen in them, with limited exception, in my experience.

“Once it happened an imam, a blood relative, was staying with us. He asked me to go to the mosque with him to offer prayers.

“I explained to him that I do not offer my prayers in the mosque. Rather I do it in my own room, in the privacy of my own home.

“But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.” (John 6:6)

“‘What harm is there,’ the imam responded, “in your accompanying me to the mosque to offer prayers?’”

“What harm is there? What harm? I will tell you,” he said, “There is great harm.”

“When I offer namaz,” he continued, “it is for the pleasure of Allah. Now, if I were to go to the masjid with you, at your behest, then I am offering these prayers partly for Allah’s pleasure and partly to please you. What greater sin is there than to deny Allah the full measure of my prayers? There is no worse sin: It would eliminate all of the benefit of the prayers themselves and turn the action instead into a sin unto itself.”

“How did he react?” 

“He had trouble accepting this.”

“Did you accompany him to the mosque?”

“No.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

During my time in Islamabad, I spent every night and woke up every morning in Abu Chacha’s house. He requested that I sleep in Rehanna’s bed, a twin next to his own forming a king-sized mattress. Initially this was a necessity, as three of my sons accompanying me were in the room I had historically occupied whenever I returned to Pakistan in prior visits as an adult.

In all prior instances, Ammi Chachi was with us. Indeed, she was in many respects the engine that powered the household: Her departure was still being grieved, and so Abu Chacha was desirous of my company even when the kids had left the premises to join cousins their own age, vacating the familiar room. 

I willingly obliged, as I treasure every moment with this man, my father’s only brother, my Abu Chacha.

With only two hours left before leaving for the airport, at midnight, we decided to lie down in hopes of taking a short nap, with the air conditioning unit in the room running due to no load shedding, Allah ka boht shukar, to get some rest and relief from the humidity.

Instead of napping, we talked. I told him how overwhelmed I was to be received so lovingly, when I first arrived after a nearly four decade hiatus. 

“You had every right: this is your second home.”

Abu Chacha is not a man of great stature, but he is a giant in my eyes. I tried to tell him so:

“You are no longer my Abu Chacha. You have become my Abu.” 

I had crossed the midpoint of living half my life with my father and half without. I had no father figure otherwise anymore. He had become that for me and, even more importantly to me, a spiritual guide: a Sherpa on the trek to summiting Sisyphus’s peak: Knowing full well that the rock would roll back down; that life on Earth is rife with rejection, disappointment and strife, and that, like Sisyphus, we must still persevere. And be mindful. We must engage in taqwa.

Abu reflexively moved his hands towards mine, lovingly. Holding them, he said, “You are nearest and dearest. It is a feeling. It can be felt, but it cannot be described.” 

Both of us had tears running from the corners of our eyes towards the pillows beneath our heads. And both of us felt the presence of his Bhai Jan, my father.

Then it was time to go, but we knew that the mission, which was not about either of us, had been accomplished.

THE END