November 2, 2003

When after repeated pleas the aunts agreed to come and spend a day with us, it turned out to be both a fulfilling and an amusing experience

Recently, my maternal aunt from Islamabad flew over to Karachi for a long-awaited visit. It also happened to coincide with the time when my other two aunts in Karachi decided to become independent and make it on their own in a newly-painted and furnished apartment.

Despite protests by nephews and nieces, asking them to come and stay with them, they decided to give living alone a try. They argued that it gave them confidence and joy to be able to cope on their own. A nephew or a grandchild was assigned to go and stay with them at night for three to four days a week, and then come ‘home’ and spend the weekend with the family.

I had been begging both my aunts for ages to come and spend some time with me, but they had been putting it off gently on one pretext or the other. Behind it all was the age-old fixation of not going to your daughter’s susral too often. Now, my Islamabad aunt’s visit was as good a time as any to renew my invitation. I asked all three of them to come over and spend at least a day with me. Finally, they agreed on one condition — I should not cook as I had no help at home. So, I promised I wouldn’t, and ordered food from a Parsi lady. It was both a fulfilling and amusing experience.

I had encouraged them to make the journey alone. Hesitantly, the eldest, Bari Khala, gave her permission, although she must have been praying hard for a miracle to happen, and it did. A daughter-in-law came to their rescue just as they were about to venture into the hitherto uncharted and merciless world, she offered to drop them at my place.

They arrived loaded with goodies and quite breathless. The last time Bari Khala had come, the lift was not working, so she decided to avoid it. Thankfully, it was only flight of stairs they had to climb. No sooner had they arrived, they took over charge, like all aunts do, and were loving and pushing and curious. Where was Ahmed, my husband, they wanted to know. I said he had gone out for some work.

“When will he be back?” was the next question.

I said I didn’t really know, and it depended on the work.

They were left aghast. I ought to keep track of my hubby, they advised and hoped he would be back for lunch. “Did you tell him we were coming?”

“Is he happy about it or is he avoiding us?”

I assured them that he would be as happy to see them as I was. He loved them dearly, as they were his aunts, too.

It made them feel great. At once they felt at home and wanted to help, manage and indulge me. They wanted to cook my favourite dishes, if only I had not ordered food. I was simply immersed in their attention and enjoyed it, too, but it left me fagged out at the end of the day. Their love and attention was so demanding.

Having settled in comfortably, they surveyed everything with a critical eye, trying to find something that needed their expertise or advice. Suddenly, from the sparkle in one of my aunt’s eyes, I knew she had spied something. The cushions! She thought the cushions needed a change of cover. I gave her new cushion covers to change at will, but she thought that the covers I gave her were not stitched properly and wanted to re-do them.

Manjhli Khala thought it was ridiculous to buy cushions with “dirty black cotton wool” inside, instead have them made-to-order with soft, white wool and that the plastic covering on them ought to be removed before putting on the covers. “Give me a thread and a needle,” she said.

I did.

“Do you expect your poor, old khala to thread the needle, dear girl?”

“Who says you are old?” I laughed and complied. My cushions were covered perfectly after I threaded the needle umpteen times.

My aunts had short naps while chatting, covering my cushions, stitching and asking when lunch would arrive. In between naps, they mumbled that the room was too hot and I ought to have an air conditioner installed. At last, Ahmed and the lunch arrived, much to the joy of all of us. We had a hearty lunch because we were all tired of bluffing our appetite away by partaking of grapes, bananas and apples. After lunch, Chhoti Khala insisted on doing the dishes and clearing up the table. The fact that the maid would do it was no deterrence. I had to literally drag her out of the kitchen.

After lunch, I had lined up my sister, Sha, to be online from Dhaka. When I told them I would talk to her, they became as excited as a bunch of kids in a candy shop. “Let us see...” they arched their necks from their reclining positions. “Will you be voice mailing or will we just see her picture?” I said it was none, just a simple chat. I showed them her picture on the screen. “She has gained weight,” they said. “Just a little...from the last time we saw her,” (just three months back). I didn’t tell them the picture was two years old. “Any pictures of her kids? All of them are studying abroad, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” I said, and showed them their pictures. “Nice boys, but none of them look like her,” they said, hiding their disapproval.

In the meantime, Sha came online and sent her regards to them. They were so excited. She wanted to know if they needed anything. “A Dhaka malmal dupatta,” said one.

“Two,” said Chhoti Khala.

“How can you leave me out,” complained Manjhli Khala. “We will pay, of course,” chorused all three. My sister said that the malmal they had in mind is no more, however she will try to get the closest copy. “Anything else?”

“Yes, kachchi haldi.”

“Whatever is that,” I asked.

“You wouldn’t know, she would. It is good for aches and pains,” said Manjhli Khala whose husband used to go to East Pakistan on official visits.

“Anything else?” asked my sister quite amused at the requests.

“Yes, khajur ka gur for making a special sweet dish,” she said. Good Lord, I had never heard of anything like that in my life. Sha promised to find out.

After tea, I gave them my albums. They spent the whole evening commenting and asking about dates and places.

“Very nice picture. Is this before or after you got married?”

I said it was pretty recent.

“There, I told you so,” exclaimed Bari Khala, looking at Manjhli Khala. “But, you do look better and younger than...well...in your pictures,” she protested, “so how could I tell?” I apologized for the photographer’s mistake.

For dinner, I called Manjhli Khala’s daughter and her family and Bari Khala’s son, who would escort them back. They were overjoyed to see their escape route, but didn’t let me feel hurt. I am sure they longed for their own beds as I for mine. It was a hectic day for us, but I guess all of us survived it with joy.

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