Khyber Dreams Chapter 6: The "Homeboys" & A New Wardrobe

I can't believe it's been since September since I've shared a chapter of "Khyber Dreams" with you. For those who might have just arrived, this is the story of a western woman's journey to Pakistan many years ago as a relatively new wife with her Pakistani husband and 1-1/2-year-old daughter. It's the tale of my adjustment to a vastly different culture and a huge new family.

When we left off, Abid, Farida and I had just arrived in Karachi, and I was getting acquainted with Abid's family members.

The youngest three brothers (of a family of ten children) still lived at home on Britto Road with their parents. Akhlaq was married, so his wife and infant daughter were there, too. The other two, Akhlaq and Munawwar, were unmarried. They had both completed university and worked as scientists--one at a cosmetic company and the other at a pharmaceutical plant.

All of the family members in Karachi made it a point to ensure our visit was as comfortable as possible. They went out of their way to provide everything they thought we needed. Everything from medical supplies to a complete new wardrobe for me and a shirt or two for Abid.

Once we'd managed to get a grip on our jet lag, Abid's brothers began to take us out to explore the city where they'd all grown up. They wanted to show me as much as they possibly could. But it was painfully obvious from the first that a young woman in western clothes made quite a spectacle in the streets of Pakistan's largest city. I got stares wherever I went, particularly if I wore a dress where my legs were on display.

In this Muslim country women were expected to dress modestly, and that meant "covered up." And "covered up" could mean anything from shalwar kameez to a burqa. And the burqa itself could range from the black robe-like head-to-toe garment seen in the larger cities (where the head would be covered but all or a portion of the face might be visible) to the all-encompassing burqa of the frontier provinces where women were completely covered in a heavy garment with a "grille" for the eyes. Abid called these "walking tents." These are what are often seen in photos taken of Afghani women. I can't imagine wearing one of these in a country where the summer temperatures can regularly approach 120 degrees.

Abid's family were well-educated and quite liberated as Pakistani society went in those days. His sisters did not wear burqa under normal circumstances. There were, however, circumstances where even they felt more comfortable in the burqa, such as trips to the doctor.

Needless to say, once it became clear that I was attracting unwanted attention, I spoke with my sisters-in-law and asked them to help me obtain Pakistani clothing. I didn't have to ask twice. They were all over the task of outfitting me in the latest styles that would help me to fit in. Within days I had a complete new wardrobe. It made a world of difference when we went shopping in Soldier's Bazaar, for example, or visited other public places. Although my fair skin, hair and eyes clearly marked me as a Westerner, I didn't feel as though I was on display.

Shalwar kameez (or pyjama kameez) are the third-world version of pant suits and are supremely comfortable, and I actually enjoyed wearing them. (Explanation:  shalwar are "blousy," loose-fitting pants with a cuff at the ankle; pyjama are pants that are closely fitted to the leg, closely resembling western attire. Kameez is the word for a loose-fitting shirt which falls to somewhere between just above the knee to mid-calf.)

A dupatta, which completed the outfit, was decidedly NOT comfortable. A long scarf which was used to cover the hair when modesty was required, most of the time the dupatta was draped with the middle portion across the chest and shoulders, the ends hanging down the back. I never could figure out how to keep it from falling off.

In the photo above, taken at Lahore's Shalimar Gardens, I am wearing shalwar kameez, with a dupatta draped across the shoulders, as is my SIL Jamilah, at left. Safia, in red, wears the traditional sari.

 
But the dupatta was nothing compared to wearing a sari. The sari has to be one of the most beautiful garments a woman can wear, but it takes talent to wrap it--and luck to keep it properly arranged. (If you happen to catch the hem on something or accidentally step on it, you could possibly find yourself unwinding your clothing!)

The sari consists of yards and yards of a light fabric, such as chiffon, which is wound around the waist, tucked into a petticoat with the loose end draped over the shoulder. A short blouse, usually baring the midriff, completes the outfit. I never really learned to properly wrap the sari myself and had to have one of my sisters-in-law assist me. God help me if I had to "use the facilities" because it was nearly impossible to lift up those yards and yards of material and keep them from getting soiled. I tried to make sure to take care of "contingencies" if I'd be wearing a sari for any length of time.

Because Abid and I were not married in Pakistan, it became a well-loved family activity to have us get dressed up in typical wedding garb, so they could take photos of us. This happened in virtually every city we visited.

Above:  Sister-in-law Jamilah, Abid, me, sister-in-law Safia, niece Shahida and her younger sister, dressed in wedding finery. In India and Pakistan, either red or green are the colors associated with wedding dresses.

In spite of the inconvenience, I'd challenge any woman to not feel her most feminine while wearing a sari.

Although I know Abid was secretly proud that his family had treated me so royally, he often joked that his family treated me like royalty while virtually ignoring him.

Actually that was true!