NOTE: We did not carry the three photos of the little boy's arm being crushed! It is truly barbaric! m.s. An 8 year old child caught stealing bread in a market of Iran is punished in a public place, in the name of Islam!!! His arm will be crushed and will lose its use permanently. A religion of peace and love, they say? How can anyone believe them when they commit such inhumane acts? Spread this example of peace and love of Islam to your friends !!

The Torn Veil

The story of Sister Gulshan Esther

Christ's healing power breaks through to a Muslim girl

 

"Oh Eagle, don't be despondent due to the swift and rough breeze, For it only blows in this manner to make you fly faster and higher." Iqba

To Mecca

I would not, in the ordinary course of events have wanted to come to England , that Spring of 1966. I, Gulshan Fatima, the youngest daughter of a Muslim Sayed family, descended from the prophet Mohammed through that other Fatima, his daughter, had always lived a quietly secluded life at home in the Punjab , Pakistan . Not only was this because I was brought up in purdah from the age of seven, according to the strict, orthodox Islamic code of the Shias, but also because I was a cripple, and unable even to leave my room with­out help. My face was veiled from men, other than permitted kinsfolk, like my father and two older brothers, and uncle. For the most part, during those first fourteen years of my feeble existence, the perimeter walls of our large garden in Jhang, about 250 miles from Lahore , were my boundaries.

It was Father who brought me to England —he who looked down on the English for worshipping three gods, instead of one God. He would not even let me learn the infidel language in my lessons with Razia, my teacher, for fear I should somehow become contaminated with error and drawn away from our faith. Yet he brought me, after spending large sums in a fruitless search for treat­ment at home, to seek the best medical advice. He did this out of kindness and concern for my future happiness, but how little we knew as we landed at Heathrow airport that early April day, of the trouble and sadness that waited round the corner for our family. Strange that I, the crippled child, the weakest of his five children, should have become in the end the strongest of all, and a rock to shatter all he held dear.

I have only to shut my eyes, even now in maturity, and a picture rises before me of my father, dear Aba‑Jan, so tall and lean in his well‑tailored, high‑necked, black coat trimmed with the gold buttons, over the loose trousers, and on his head the white turban lined with blue silk. I see him, as so often in childhood, coming into my room to teach me my religion.

I see him standing by my bed, opposite the picture of the House of God at Mecca, Islam's holiest place, the Ka'aba, erected it is said, by Abraham and repaired by Mohammed. Father takes down the Holy Quran from its high shelf, the highest place in the room, for nothing must be put on or above the Quran. He first of all kisses the green silk cover and recites the Bismillah i‑Rahman-ir‑Raheem. (I begin this in the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful.) Then he unwraps the green silk cover—he has first carefully performed Wudu, the ritual *ablutions necessary before carrying or touch­ing the holy book. He repeats the Bismillah and then glues the Holy Quran on a rail, a special x‑shaped stand, touching the book only with his finger tips. He sits so that I, propped on a chair can also see. I too have performed Wudu, with the help of my maids.

With his finger Father traces the sacred writings in the decorative Arabic script, and I, anxious to please, repeat after him the Fatiha, the Opening, words which bind to­gether all Muslims, everywhere:

 

Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Creation,

The Compassionate, the Merciful,

King of Judgement day!

You alone we worship, and to You alone

we pray for help.

Guide us to the straight path

The path of those whom You have favored,

Not of those who have incurred Your wrath,

Nor of those who have gone astray.

Today we are reading from the Sura The Imrans:

Allah! There is no God but Him, the Living, the Ever-existent One.

He has revealed to you the Book with the truth, confirming the scriptures which preceded it: for He has already revealed the Torah and the Gospel for the guidance of men and the distinction between right and wrong.

I am doing what every Muslim child brought up in an orthodox family does from early childhood—reading through the Holy Quran in Arabic. It can only really be understood in the Arabic in which it was written. We Muslims know that it cannot be translated, as if it were just any book, without losing some of its meaning, because it is sacred.

When I shall have finished reading it through for the first time—around the age of seven, regarded as the age of discretion—there will be a feast to celebrate—we call it the "ameen of the Holy Quran"—and members of the family, friends and neighbors will be invited. In the central open courtyard of our bungalow, where the men sit separated from the women by a partition, the mullah will recite prayers to mark my arrival at this important new stage of life, and the women, sitting in their part of the courtyard, will hush their gossip to listen.

We have reached the end of the Sura. Now comes my catechism. Father looks at me with a smile hovering about his lips:

"Well done little Beiti (daughter)," he says. "Now answer me these questions:

"Where is Allah?"

Shyly I repeat the lesson I know so well: "Allah is everywhere."

"Does Allah know all the actions you do on earth?"

"Yes, Allah knows all the actions I do on earth, both good and bad. He even knows my secret thoughts."

"What has Allah done for you?"

"Allah has created me and all the world. He loves and cherishes me. He will reward me in heaven for all my good actions and punish me in hell for all my evil deeds."

"How can you win the love of Allah?"

"I can win the love of Allah by complete submission to His will and obedience to His commands."

"How can you know the Will and Commands of Allah?"

"I can know the Will and Commands of Allah from the Holy Quran and from the Traditions of our Prophet Mohammed (May peace and blessings of Allah be upon him)."

"Very good," says Father. "Now is there anything you want to know? Have you any questions?"

"Yes Father, please tell me, why is Islam better than other religions?" I ask him this not because I know anything about other religions but because I like to hear him explain our religion. Father's answer is clear and definite:

"Gulshan, I want you always to remember this. Our religion is greater than any other because, first of all, the glory of God is Mohammed. There were many other prophets, but Mohammed brought God's final message to mankind and there is no need of any prophet after him.

Second, Mohammed is God's Friend. He destroyed all the idols and converted all the people who worshipped the idols to Islam. Third, God gave the Quran to Mohammed, after all the other holy books. It is God's last word and we must obey it. All other writings are incomplete."

I listen. His words are writing themselves on the tablets of my mind and my heart.

If there is time I ask him to tell me again about the picture in my room. What is it like to go on pilgrimage to the holy city of Mecca , that magnet towards which every Muslim turns to pray five times daily? We turn too in our city, as the muezzin calls the azzan from the minaret of the mosque. The sound ricochets along the avenues, above the noise of traffic and of the bazaar, and enters our screened windows at dawn, noon , dusk and at night, calling the faithful to prayer with the first declaration of Islam:

La ilaha ill Allah,

Muhammad rasoolullah!

There is no God but Allah:

And Mohammed is the Prophet of God.

Father explains it all to me. He has been twice on pilgrimage—once by himself and once with his wife, my mother. It is every Muslim's duty to go at least once in his life—oftener if he is rich enough. To go on pilgrimage is the fifth of the basic Five Pillars of Islam, which unite millions of Muslims in many different countries and ensure the continuance of our faith.

"Will I go to Mecca , father?" I ask. He laughs and stoops to kiss my forehead.

"You will, little Gulshan. When you are older and perhaps ... "

He does not finish the sentence, but I know what he wants to say .... "When our prayers for you are answered."

From these instruction periods I learn devotion to God, an attachment to my religion and its customs, fierce pride in my ancestral line from the Prophet Mohammed, through his son‑in‑law Ali, and an understanding of the dignity of my father, who is not only the head of our family but, as a descendant of the Prophet, is a Sayed and a Shah. He is also a Pir—religious leader, and a landlord with a large estate in the country and a commodious bungalow surrounded by gardens on the edge of our city. I begin to understand why we are so respected as a family, even by the mullah, or maulvi, who comes to ask questions of my father, religious questions, which he himself cannot answer.

Looking back now I can trace a purpose in those captive years, when mind and spirit unfolded like the rosebuds in our well‑watered garden, tended so lovingly by our gardeners. My name, Gulshan, means in Urdu, "the place of flowers, the garden." I, a sickly plant to bear such a name, was tended in the same way by my father. He loved all of us—his two sons Safdar Shah and Alim Shah, and three daughters, Anis Bibi, Samina and me, but although I disappointed him in being born a female, and then when I was six months old, being left a weak cripple by typhoid, Father loved me as much, if not more than the others. Had not my mother given him a sacred charge on her deathbed to look after me?

"I beg you Shah‑ji, do not marry again, for the sake of little Gulshan," she said with her dying breath. She wanted to protect me, since a step‑mother and her children could reduce the *patrimony of a first wife's daughter, and could treat her unkindly if she were ailing and unmarried.

He had promised her those many years ago and he had kept his word, in a land where a man might have up to four wives, according to the Quran, if he were rich enough to treat each one with equality and justice.

Such was the undisturbed pattern of my life, until that visit to England when I was 14. It changed everything in subtle ways, setting in motion a chain of unintended consequences. I had no premonition of this of course as I waited in a London hotel room, on the third day of our visit, with Salima and Sema my maids. We waited for the verdict of the English specialist my father had heard of during the search for treatment in Pakistan , who would settle, once and for all, my future.

If I could be cured of this sickness which had paralyzed my left side when I was an infant, then I should be free to marry my cousin, to whom I had been betrothed at three months, and who was now at home in Multan, Punjab, awaiting news of my recovery. And if not, my engagement would have to be broken, and my shame would be greater than if I had been married and then divorced by my husband.

We heard the footsteps coming. Salima and Sema jumped up and arranged their long, scarf‑like dupattas nervously. Salima pulled mine right down over my face, as I lay on the coverlet of my bed. I was shivering, but not from cold. I had to grit my teeth to stop them from chattering.

The door opened and in walked my father with the doctor.

"Good morning" said a pleasant, very polite voice. I could not see the face of this Dr. David, but he carried with him an air of authority and knowledge. Firm hands pushed up my long sleeve and tested a limp left arm and then my wasted leg. One minute passed and then the specialist straightened up.

"There is no medicine for this—only prayer" said Dr. David to my father. There was no mistaking the quiet finality in his voice.

Lying listening on my couch I heard the name of God used by the English doctor. I was puzzled. What could he know of God? I sensed from his kind and sympathetic manner that he was dashing our hopes of my recovery, and yet he had pointed to the way of prayer.

My father walked to the door with him. When he came back he said, "That was good for an Englishman, telling us to pray."

Salima turned back my dupatta and helped me to sit up.

"Father, can't he make me better?" I could not keep my voice from trembling. Tears were gathering behind my eyes.

Father patted my lifeless hand. He said quickly: "There's only one way now. Let us knock on the heavenly door. We will go on to Mecca as we intended. God will hear our prayers, and we may yet return home with thanksgiving."

He smiled at me, and I tried to smile back. My sorrow was equally his sorrow, but he wasn't in despair. There was renewed hope in his voice. Surely at the house of God or at the healing spring of Zamzam we would find our hearts' desire?

We stayed at the hotel for a few more days, while Father arranged for the flight through to Jeddah, the airport used by pilgrims to Mecca . He hadn't done so before, since he was awaiting the outcome of any treatment which might be recommended. He had planned this visit to fall just before the annual month of pilgrimage, so that after treatment we should be able to go to Mecca to give thanks.

During those days of waiting, father went out to see friends in the Pakistani community or they came to see him. Ordinarily the women of those families would have visited me. But I felt the shame of my condition and was not accustomed to meeting strangers at home, so few of the ladies knocked at my door. Who would want to see withered limbs, with the skin turned black, wrinkled and hanging loose, and with whatever fingers there were sticking together with all the muscular strength of a piece of jelly? At an age when my peers were beginning to dream of the day when they would wear the red wedding dress, with the gold embroidery, and go jeweled, with a fine dowry to their husband's home, I was facing a lonely future, cut off from my own kind, a non-person, never to be a whole, proper woman, behind a veil of shame.

We were on the second floor of the hotel, in a comfortable room next door to Father's. It had thick carpets and its own bathroom. Apart from tending me, and washing our undies in the bathroom by hand, Salima and Sema, who slept in my room on a folding bed, sitting up in shifts to protect me and see to my needs, had little to do. But time passed quickly enough with my books, the five prayer times and with the ordinary details of washing, drying, eating, which always take longer when a person is disabled. At other times I listened to the entertaining gossip of my maids. They made occasional forays to the lobby downstairs, but were too frightened to go out alone. Most of the time they contented themselves with a view of the world outside the window, reporting to me what they saw. Their reactions were those of typical village girls of Pakistan , and they made me laugh:

"Oh see the beautiful city" (This from Salima.) "So many people are walking up and down and there are so many cars."

Then there would be a cry from Sema.

"Oh the women have bare legs. Aren't they ashamed? The men and women are walking together, holding hands. They're kissing. Oh they're going straight to hell."

We had been taught strict rules about dress and behavior from our childhood up. We covered ourselves modestly from neck to ankles with the shalwar kameeze of the Punjab —a loose tunic and trousers, gathered around the ankle. We wore round our necks a long fine, wide scarf or dopatta, which could cover our heads when necessary or be pulled right over our faces, and we also, when it was cold, wrapped ourselves in a shawl. If we had to go out then we wore the burka—a long impenetrable veil, covering us from head to toe, gathered into a headpiece, with a net-covered slit in front to see through. It rendered impossible any ordinary conversation in the street, and cut down the wearer's ability to see and hear traffic. But at the time I am speaking of we never questioned the rules that governed our lives, and would indeed have been terrified to defy the conventions. In fact, we felt the veil a protection. We could look out (just) at the world, but it could not look at us.

When we saw how women in London flaunted themsel­ves in their immodest mini‑skirts, ending well above the knee it was obvious to all three of us that it was the wickedest city in the world.

In our country, and even more in our city, to talk to a man who was not of our immediate family, even to male servants, would have brought us into disrepute. The whole purpose of purdah, was, of course, the protection of family honor. Not the slightest whiff or stain of suspicion must attach itself to the daughters of a Muslim family. The penalties for indiscretion could be terrible.

Three times a day food arrived, brought by a waiter with a trolley. The maids would take it from him at the door. Sometimes it would be accompanied by an English maid, and I would shut my eyes so as not to see her legs.

I was becoming very tired of the hotel food. Father ordered chicken for us every day, as that was halal, permitted flesh, slaughtered in the approved manner. Pork was haram, forbidden—even to say the name "pig" made one's mouth dirty, and even to this day I use the Punjabi word "barla" which means "outsider," when talking about it, such is the force of early training. Any other kind of meat could also be suspected of having been cooked in lard. With the chicken came vegetables and rice, and ice cream for sweet. We drank Coca Cola, and had a supply of that in our room. I wished vainly for curry or kebabs, and for peaches or mangoes from our trees at home.

Father helped to keep up my spirits by taking me on two or three short outings. Once I was shown around the hotel, and a couple of tines he took me, with the servants, for a ride around the neighborhood in a taxi. He explained to me why the Ingrez (English) were not like us:

"This is a Christian country" he said. "They believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God. Of course they are wrong, because God never married and how could He have a Son? Still they are the people of a Book just as we are. Muslim and Christian share the same Book."

This puzzled me. How could they share our Book and yet be so different?

"They have freedom to do many things that we do not" he said. "They have the freedom to eat pork and drink stimulants. There is no distance between men and women. They live together without marrying, and when children grow up they do not respect their elders. But they are good people, very punctual and they have good principles. When they make a promise they keep it. Not like Asians."

Father was an authority on this subject. He dealt with foreigners all the time in the exporting of the cotton he grew in Pakistan .

"We may differ in religion from them, but they are sympathetic people who will do things for you and they're humane," he concluded.

I pondered the contradictions of the Ingrez—a kind people, living in a gentle, green, country, fed by frequent rains, whose Book led to such freedom. Yet our Book was related to theirs. What was the key to this difference between us? It was too deep for a girl of 14—I dismissed the question from my mind, and gave myself up to anticipation of the Pilgrimage upon which we were embarking. It was many years before further enlightenment came, and when it did I would not be able to dismiss the question so lightly.

The Hajj

The beautiful white plane of the Pakistan International Airways sat like a bird on the airstrip. As I was lifted up the gangway, from my wheelchair, I felt a sense of liberation at leaving England . This visit had achieved something, in ending our uncertainty. Now there was only one hope and we were being drawn towards it at great speed. Bathed in diamond‑clear light it lay in my dreams, a place unknown to me and yet well known—the holy city of Mecca , which every Muslim desires to see at least once in his or her life.

On the plane we had seats in the first‑class compartment, and once again I sat between my maids, with Sema acting as support for my weak left side, and Salima ready to fetch and carry. Father spread himself over two seats in front from where he continued my education in travel:

"We're now flying at 30,000 feet up in the air" he said, when the plane stopped climbing.

I looked out of the window and gasped. We were in a brilliant world of sunshine and below us was a floor of softest billowy cotton clouds, like the stuffing for a bride's mattress.

Salima and Sema looked out too—and gave muffled little screams:

"Look how much iron is flying through the air," they marveled in a mixture of Punjabi and Urdu words, overlaid with their heavy Jhang accent. I suppressed a smile—they were village girls to whom a great deal was happening.

Suddenly the plane began to bounce up and down in the air, and I was frightened. Father explained that we had hit an air pocket: "Don't worry. Everything is quite safe," he assured us.

There were other pilgrims on the plane. I knew that like us they had in their luggage the white Ihram garments, which each pilgrim must wear for Hajj, the Pilgrimage.

Once, Father had taken me to see a film about the Hajj. It was for religious people, who intended to go to Mecca during the month of Pilgrimage, and it showed all the customs in beautiful color. I had been taught the history of the birth of our religion in the deserts of Arabia . The landscape of these events was as familiar to me as the dear landscape of our own house and garden.

The stewardess, who was dressed in green, with a token dopatta under her chin, brought a meal but I only picked at it. Salima looked at the barely touched food and she said softly:

"Bibi‑ji, won't you eat to keep up your strength?"

I shook my head. "I'm not hungry.." In fact I was feeling rather sick, partly from the bumping of the aircraft and partly from excitement at what lay ahead. I said nothing about my real feelings to her. How could I discuss with a servant the hopes and fears that flitted across my mind like the clouds chasing across the sky?

At Abu Dhabi we changed planes and were joined by pilgrims from far‑away places. I studied their costumes with interest, trying to discover where they came from. My teacher Razia had done well. I was able to identify people from Iran , Nigeria , China , Indonesia , Egypt ... all the world seemed to be moving towards the city of Mecca .

There was a crackling on the loudspeaker. In two languages, English and Arabic, the hostess was telling us that we were approaching Jeddah and preparing to land.

A sign lit up. "We must fasten our seat belts" said Father. We did. Salima helped me and Father checked to see that it was properly done.

Out of the plane window I could see the desert, its *dun‑colored dunes blown into crescent shapes by the harsh, hot winds; I could see mountains on the horizon, many miles away, and then a large city spread out below us, with tall buildings, and many streets. I could see trees and green gardens.

"See" said Father, "what water does to the desert. It is only a few years since they brought the piped water from the Wadi Fatima."

I nodded. In my lessons I'd learned how oil riches had brought many improvements to a people who had once been poor and backward, living in mud houses, if they were farmers, or bedouin tents, if they were nomads, all going without rain for years at a time.

The plane touched down and there to meet us at the airport was my father's old friend, the Sheikh, with his big Chevrolet car. This Sheikh had eight wives and eighteen children living at his huge villa. Thirteen of his children were daughters and five were young sons. I believe he had others who were married or studying abroad. He had his own oil well, which supported them all in luxury. In addition he was a landowner, breeding cattle and camels, sheep and goats.

I had opportunity to see the workings of this large household, during the next few days, while we enjoyed the Sheikh's hospitality.

The Sheikh introduced me to all of his wives—Fatima, Zora, Rabia, Rukia ... right down the line.

"I have no favorites" he announced. "All my wives are equal." I knew why he said this—because the Quran makes it plain that a man may marry more than one wife but he must treat all his wives equally well. The Prophet, of course, had several wives, but ordinary men, I was told, found it almost impossible to carry out his instruction about equality with impartiality. Polygamy was not there­fore encouraged in our society—yet here it appeared to flourish, and everyone seemed on good terms with each other.

The daughters of the household, the oldest of whom I took to be about 18, were introduced to me by a lady translator, Bilquis. They drifted into the female guest room, where I was established with my maids, to ask me about Pakistan :

"Do you have roads? Cities? What do you eat? What kind of vegetables do you grow? Do you have schools for girls? Do you wear that kind of dress all the time?"

I answered as best I could, and was pleased when they said they wished to go to Pakistan to see it all. I, in turn, asked about their lives: "How do you live here? What do you do all day?"

The answer seemed to be "very little." The Sheikh kept his wives and daughters at home. The daughters, who were well educated, seemed to do little but amuse themselves. They spent their days gossiping, watching TV and doing a little light reading in English and Arabic. Yet they seemed happy enough, with every wish met. If they wanted to go shopping, Bilquis went with them and handled the money while they chose whatever they wanted.

As for the Sheikh's wives, apart from shopping trips (in shifts) or visits to the hospital with Bilquis, when they wrapped themselves in black burkas, either the full length or the Turkish kind, divided at the waist, their main object seemed to be to please the Sheikh. They sat about cross-legged on cushions wearing gold and silver embroidered kaftans. There were sofas around the walls in the huge marble‑floored room, but they preferred the floor. Some­times they dressed Western‑style in elaborate and fashion­able dresses ordered from England and America , putting on expensive jewelry. The air was heavy with perfume, sprayed by servants.

In the evening, before bed, I was able to meet Father for a few minutes in the public room, to talk and compare notes.

The Sheikh was 65, according to Father, but his smooth unwrinkled skin hid the years. He was a blend of old ways and new—he especially liked a social life and the company of other men, entertaining them at home both lavishly and generously. He enjoyed smoking and drinking black tea and listening to Arab music, which he had piped into every room, so that all could share his pleasure. This, I learned, was typically Arabic. All the facilities of the house must be shared with everyone, whether wanted or not.

Meal times were interesting occasions, when a whole lamb was cooked and served to the household, divided between the men's dining room and the women's. The diners took off their shoes before treading on the colorful Persian carpets. They ate reclining on the thick cushions placed around a circle. A huge tray of spiced rice and steaming lamb was placed in the middle, and around it lay dishes of eggplant, rice, salad, flat sheets of bread and custards or halva. Everyone ate with their right hands only, rolling handfuls of rice into lumps and popping them in their mouths, and tearing off pieces of bread.

I ate in my room. I could not balance on those cushions to eat under so many curious eyes. But the Sheikh was kindness itself, allowing me to do as I pleased. My room was full of comforts, such as a beautiful carpet, some green plants, a pretty shaded round window, a big mirror and a bathroom alcove, with a modern flush toilet.

Hospitality is taken very seriously by the Arabs. It stems from tribal memories of the struggle to survive in the harsh desert, when one's life could depend on being given shelter by the bedouin. It used to be said that, in the old days, a sheikh would welcome a guest and entertain him for three days before asking even his name or his business. This sheikh maintained tradition, by making available to us all the facilities of his house, including a car and driver while we stayed with him. It meant that we were able to see something of the beautiful city of Jeddah .

Father sat in the front with the white‑robed driver, Qazi, while I peered through the curtained rear windows at the city. It was crowded with pilgrims, who poured off the ships in the harbor or who came with every flight into the new airport. Qazi, the driver, pointed out for us many contrasts between old and new—the ten-storey office building along King 'Abd al-'Aziz Street where laden donkeys jostled the big American cars. We saw the suq, the street market, where one could buy everything from coffee beans to carpets—even holy water brought down from Mecca—and the shops selling Western merchandise. We saw the old city, with the magnificent, crumbling, tall stone merchants houses, adorned with latticed balconies, from which the women of the harem used to peer down at the street life, unseen by those below. In great contrast was the new low‑cost housing built on the outskirts of the city.

"When there was no oil there was poverty and other problems," volunteered Qazi, "But now we have oil we have good food and the children can learn."

We stopped to see the oil being pumped out of the ground in one place. I did not like the smell of that.

When we left the Sheikh to travel to Mecca we did so in comfort and style, as he insisted that we take his car and driver. Father thanked him with a little speech:

"You have shown us very warm generosity and friend­ship, to make our journey easy."

The Sheikh would have done this for any visitor, but I knew that he did it especially for us, because he was an old family friend, and business acquaintance of my Father's, with an interest in the purchase of the good breed of sheep and goats, for which our area was famous.

We left very early in the morning, after prayers, for the drive to Mecca because we wanted to take time and see everything on the way. The new four‑lane highway was very good, and fleets of taxis and buses rushed along, carrying an endless stream of pilgrims forward on the forty‑five mile journey to Mecca . There were many on foot, stoically marching forward, prepared to endure what would become a baking plain when the sun rose higher. They did this not because they were poor, but because they were recalling the journey of Abraham, when he sought for sanctuary for Hagar and Ishmael.

I wouldn't admit it, but I was almost glad to be crippled, so that I did not have to walk under the broiling sun in a caul­dron of heat. I knew this was not the spirit of Hajj, which is one of total sacrifice and submission, so I said nothing.

Qazi, the driver, pointed out the water taps along the way, and the electric lights strung on poles which lit the travelers:

"The King has done this. He comes himself with his ministers and the princes and opens the pilgrimage each year, and he has made many improvements to the facilities at the holy places."

Fifteen miles from the city signs warned us "Restricted area. Muslims only permitted." Some of the soldiers at the entry points had guns, and they were examining people's passes. The driver spoke to the soldiers and we were allowed to take the car on.

We made progress very slowly, climbing the hills, through a road cut into the rocks, past a mass of white-robed worshippers who were following the steps of Abraham after Sarah banished the serving-woman and her son.

Our ears were filled with the sound of chanted prayers, verses of the Holy Quran, and the declaration:

There is no God but Allah. Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah.

Then we rounded a hill and the holy city, white and shining in the already baking morning sunshine, burst into view below us. The driver stopped the car and the pilgrim's cry broke from our lips in a quite involuntary manner:

"Labbayka Allahumma Labbayka!" "Here I am, at Thy service. O Allah! Here I am at Thy service; Here I am at Thy service; There is no partner unto Thee; Here I am at Thy service; to Thee the glory, the riches and the sovereignty of the world. There is no partner to Thee."

"Mohammed's city," said Father. "Just think, the Prophet preached in these streets."

A strange feeling of calm settled on me. All worry about the future lifted. I felt at one with all these other pilgrims, seeking a power I could not see, as eternal and mysterious as the seven hills surrounding the city.

The Water of Life

The Hajji‑Camp, or pilgrims' rest, was some way from the Haram Mosque. Abdulla, the guide, who had been found for us by our friend, the Sheikh, welcomed us at the entrance. He and Father shook hands and embraced.

" Alhan Wa salan (Welcome)" said Abdulla.

"And to you," said Father, with that easy acceptance of this Arab as a brother and equal, which was such a feature of Hajj.

"Please enter. You're welcome in the Name of Allah" said Abdullah. "I have received his excellency, the Sheikh's letter. I've arranged the rooms for you..." There followed a discussion about lambs for the sacrifice. Father was ordering two for each person, even the maids, that was eight lambs.

A little shiver of delight ran through me. The Feat of Sacrifice (Eid al Adha) in honor of the Patriarch Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael, was the high point of the Pilgrimage. Father was making sure our prayers had special *efficacy, with the blood of so many lambs.

Our rooms were all in lines, on one level. We had two rooms with bathrooms attached, very simply and plainly furnished, with charpais to sleep on. I thought with longing of my cotton‑filled mattress on the palung at home. Latticed string with a hair mattress on top was not quite so restful, particularly as a paralyzed left side made turning over difficult. This, however, was all part of going on Pilgrimage. For days on end hundreds of thousands of people would be packed into the area of Mecca , squashing into the hotels and guest houses, camping in the open air. There would be little comfort about it, and no ostentatious display of wealth. The good would be lost if one voiced complaints, were arrogant and proud, or lost one's temper in the heat and the stressful conditions, so Father explained.

An electric fan in the ceiling of our room moved the hot, thick air around, in a fruitless search for coolness. There were greenish curtains at the window, drawn to keep out the sun, which gave a slight feeling of being in a tank of fishes. In addition there were thin metal screens, through which I could see the distant outlines of the minarets of the Great Mosque, pointing upwards like fingers.

Resting on my charpai, I heard the endless shuffling of the heelless leather sandals worn by the pilgrims. Their voices reached us in a babel of strange languages. Weaving through the texture of sound was the hypnotic chanting of verses from the Quran, and Allahu Akbar—"God is Most Great." Excitement prickled through me. To be here was good, enough to live on for a life time. My maids felt that too:

"How lucky we are to be your servants, and to be on Hajj" said Salima as she and Sema helped me take my second cool shower of the day. For them it was specially fortunate as many devout persons all over the world were at this moment longing to be here, but could not afford the time or outlay of money. The Hajj could take up to one month, if one visited all the holy places.

Father found some of his merchant friends from Lahore , Rawalpindi , Peshawar and Karachi , but for once they were not all talking about the price of cotton and wheat. Oh no, here worldly matters dropped away and also all distinction of birth, national origin, achievements, work or status. In the huge eating‑hall at the Hajji‑Camp servants sat down to eat with their masters, all differences covered by the Ihram—the pilgrim's dress. The men wore a simple unsewn cotton sheet wrapped round the lower half of the body, with another around the shoulders. All the women wore long white plain dresses, with head‑coverings and white stockings, but went unveiled. In the steps of the Prophet people had the same value in God's sight. Father told me, with an expression of deep seriousness:

"Once you wear the Ihram you've left your old life, and come into your new life. In a way it is your shroud. In this dress, if you die, you'll go straight to heaven, non‑stop."

In the streets, as he went to prayer at the mosque, Father had met an old school friend:

"Attaullah is here. He's a true Muslim—he gives alms to the poor in Pakistan . And He's very religious. This is his third visit."

The giving of a proportion of one's income for the relief of poverty, known as the zakat, or almsgiving, is the Third Pillar of Islam. The Fourth Pillar is the discipline of fasting from dawn to sunset during the ninth month of the lunar calendar, the month of Ramadan. It is after this that the poor‑tax or zakat is given.

You're very religious too, Father, I thought, for you give alms and this is your third time also, and who but you has taught me to say prayers. I looked at his forhead. There clearly marked was the depression, called the mihrab, after the sacred arch of the niche pointing to Mecca in every mosque. This comes from repeated pressing of the forehead to the ground in prayer rituals. One has only to see this to know a man of prayer—and prayer is the Second Pillar of Islam.

I didn't go out at all for the remainer of our first day, but stayed, praying, reading the Holy Quran and otherwise preparing myself for the following day's visit to the Ka'aba, which would be very tiring, in the heat, jostled by so many people. Salima and Sema brought food to my room and remained with me.

"There are so many people and yet it's so peaceful" said Salima, during the evening. The streets were packed with pilgrims, yet there was an air of tranquility. There was no frantic haste. To be in this place was Paradise —the fulfilment of all desire.

When the muezzin called from the minarets of the mosque at sundown, everyone in Mecca stopped where they were, and turned toward the Ka'aba, the potent symbol of unity for millions of Muslims in the four corners of the world. They stood upright, hands open on each side of the face: "God is most great" they prayed. The arms were lowered and the right hand placed over the left arm, above the waist for a woman, below for a man: "All Glory be to Thee, O Allah! and Praise be to Thee; blessed is Thy Name and exalted Thy Majesty; and there is none worthy of worship besides Thee." There followed some other prayers, the Fatiha, some verses of the Quran, then Allahu Akbar. At this the worshippers bowed from the hips, hands on knees: "How glorious is my Lord, the Great!" They stood erect, hands at side: "Allah has listened to him who has praised Him; Our Lord praise be to Thee." Then saying "Allahu Akbar" they prostrated themselves: "All glory be to my Lord, the Most High" (three times.) Then they raised themselves and knelt in a sitting posture: "O Allah! forgive me and have mercy upon me." They prostrated themselves again. This was one complete Rakat, which was to be followed by some repetitions of the movements and prayers.

As a sick person, I performed the sacred ritual, with the assistance of my maids, sitting, the arch, or mihrab, on my prayer mat pointing towards the Ka'aba.

Would I wake from this mystic dream in my own room at home, or was I really saying my prayers here at the centre of the world? Tingling anticipation shot through me, a heady excitement. "To be here O God is enough, even if I cannot walk." To see with one's own eyes, the House of God, built by Abraham, was a gift that one could live on for the rest of one's days.

"It's true you've lived 14 years as a crippled person" I told myself, "but here, where faith is strongest, where so many prayers are centred, God will hear your family's prayers, and Mohammed will ask Him to heal you."

When I thought of God no picture rose to mind, for how could one make a picture of the Eternal Being? He, though called by more than ninety nine names in the Holy Quran, was still unknowable. There was nothing human to which He could be compared, so I had been taught. But my lips moved in the words of the long cherished Fatiha:

You alone we worship, and to You alone

We pray for help.

Guide us in the straight path,

The path of those whom You have favored…

To the Muslim, life is a road, and every individual is somewhere on that road between birth and death, creation and judgement. I too had entered on a Pilgrimage which, though I couldn't forsee the end, would last till the end of my days.

Next morning we were all up before dawn, and, after prayers and early breakfast we started on the walk to the Ka'aba. Father had arranged for me to be taken in a wheelchair, while my maids walked beside, and he strode in front. Many sick and elderly were being carried in this fashion. I sat propped up, enjoying the scene, which was one of great liveliness, as thousands of men and women of all ages and all nationalities together pressed towards the House of God. I had never before in my life seen so many people in one place, so determined on one object—not even in Lahore , or Rawalpindi , when Father took me there in his car, not even in London . The human tide surged forward, with one aim, one end, praying as they walked, or reciting the rhythmic, lilting verses from the Quran.

Massive outer walls pierced by gates surrounded the ancient Haram mosque. Before entering we had to submit to a body search by men and women stationed at the gates. Father had warned me about this:

"It's rumoured that infidels have tried more than once to penetrate into our holy places to do some mischief, and to defile them."

"What happened to them, Father?" I enquired fearfully.

"Oh, I expect they were shot" he said. I shivered at the punishment, but felt they deserved it, for the insult.

We entered a great arena, dominated by towering minarets. In the centre of this stood the mosque, begun in the 8th century and now greatly extended to take thousands of worshippers. Our party crossed carpets, shoes in hand and left them in exchange for a numbered ticket. Then we passed through a gate to the inner courts. We found ourselves in a vast open space, in the middle of which stood the huge cube‑like granite building known as the Ka'aba, the House of God, draped with black brocade embroidered with the names of God in gold.

The whole open space was white with thousands and thousands of people, all with their faces turned to the Ka'aba. Round the Ka'aba people were walking or running in an anti-clockwise direction.

Marble pathways radiated out from the centre. We walked along one of these, and reached a circular area where I was transferred to a wooden palki or litter carried by four stalwart men, before we were swept into the melee of whirling figures. Round the Ka'aba we went, three times running, four walking, I bobbing on my palki like a piece of foam on the crest of a tide. Each time we passed the Black Stone on the north‑east corner, put there by Moham­med with his own hands, we raised our arms and shouted Allahu Akber—"God is Most Great!" It was a bumpy ride and I looked anxiously at Father, but he seemed unaware of the heat, the pressure of the crowd or the discomfort. To be here was all he desired.

On our last *circumambulation we found ourselves at the Black Stone. I remember I had been told that this was the stone which was thrown down to Adam, by God. It was a powerful symbol of our faith, touched by God, Adam and Mohammed. The bearers pushed us forward, and lowered my pallet. I was helped to lean forward to kiss the Black Stone. It was set in silver and was sprayed with Perfume. I shut my eyes, feeling in touch with the Prophet. The Stone did not feel like stone at all. It was warm to my lips, and there was a sense of peace around me. I said "Please heal me, and heal these others."

But nothing happened. Salima and Sema pulled me upright and we passed on. I kept my head down, avoiding Father's troubled gaze. We next moved on to the praying place of Abraham and offered a prayer for our dearest wish. "Please heal me," I prayed.

The next ritual was to run between Safa and Marwa, two small hills enclosed in the Great Mosque, about half a mile apart. Hagar and Ishmael are said to be buried under these mounds.

It is a great game, I thought, but kept it to myself. Laughing would not do here, for everyone else was taking it very seriously. I went back to a wheelchair to progress along marble pathways between Safa and Marwa seven times, tracing the movements of Hagar as she looked for water for her child Ishmael after they had been cast out.

Tradition has it that God opened a spring of water, Abb‑a-­Zamzarn (the water of Life) near there. People were buying the water and drinking it from metal cups. Father saw that we had a drink and bought a skin of the water to be delivered at the Hajji‑Camp. Some of this was to be taken back to Pakistan , the rest was for me to bathe in.

These rituals had taken most of the day, without food or rest and we now returned to the Hajji‑camp to await the next event. This was a walk to Arafat, a place about seven miles from Mecca , where Muslims say God tested Abra­ham by asking him to offer his first‑born son Ishmael as a sacrifice. When God saw Abraham's obedience he stopped the sacrifice and instead provided a substitute ram, caught in a thicket. I think that we visted Mina on the way there and back, to throw stones at three pillars, representing the devils who tried to tempt Abraham to refuse to offer his son. Everybody was laughing at the ugly Pillars as they threw stones or shoes. To throw shoes was a great insult.

Then we went to the place of sacrifice, just outside the town, and stood in line until we reached the butcher, who knew about our lambs. He held the knife in one hand and the lamb in the other, and I put my hand on the knife, and the butcher did the killing. The blood ran from the neck of the lamb into the trough, and it twitched and shook as if trying to get away. I felt nothing for the lamb—its death was fulfilling the command to sacrifice. Then another butcher came and took the lamb away and skinned it. We could not stay to see all our lambs slaughtered, because the lines were so long, but it was all very well arranged. Our lambs were checked off, and would be offered later. We watched as other people came up in our place to offer their lambs, goats or camels. Up to six people could share in offering a camel, said Father. I was glad we didn't stay long enough to see a camel die.

I knew what would happen to the meat. Father had told me:

"Some of it goes to the poor—they eat well at Hajj. Some we will eat at the Hajji‑Camp. A lot of it will be burned. It cannot be kept in this heat."

The Pilgrims stayed in Mina for three days, and on the second day resumed ordinary clothes, making the dusty, hot streets blossom with brilliant color from national costumes. The men shaved their heads or had their hair cropped all over, and the women had at least an inch cut off.

Everyone wished each other "Happy Hajj." These were days of feasting with friends old and new. It was also a time to talk over differences and be reconciled to others.

"The world would be a happy place if we kept the spirit of Hajj for the rest of our lives," said my Father.

We did not, however, stay at Mina, because of my disability, but returned to the Hajji‑Camp. Soon after our return, I sat on a stool in the deep bath, supported by Sema, reciting prayers as Salima poured the water from Zamzam over me from a plastic bucket.

I really expected at that moment to be healed, to have all this paralysis taken away. But nothing happened at all. My body was as heavy as lead, still. My heart was heavier as my servants lifted me, and dried me, and dressed me.

In a little while Father, who had been waiting in the next room, expecting me to walk through the door on my two legs, came in to see me.

"Today it was not the will of Allah. But we will not give up hope. God is Most Great" he said, then went quietly out.

After these rituals many of the Hajji would return home, to be respected in their own countries. Some people would even put Hajji before their names, or put it in their shop signs to show they were honest. "I'd like to believe it about some of them" said Father, with the merest hint of a smile.

Many, like us, were going on to Medina , the second important city for Muslims, 250 miles away, where Mohammed lived for 10 years after he was driven from Mecca and where he set up Islam in 622, beginning the Muslim Era. He lived there for the last part of his life, and we were intending to see his Mausoleum. Many stories which so thrilled me as a child, centred round this city.

The Mosque at Madni is magnificent. We walked on thick, beautiful carpets and paid our homage at Mohammed's tomb. It was covered and carpeted and surrounded by glass. People walked round it and kissed the tomb through the glass with flying kisses. They also threw in money, and wreaths of flowers. The attendants picked them up and decorated the tomb.

Around the courtyard people sat and sang religious songs. Since Father was a Pir he asked if I could be allowed near to Mohammed's tomb. The attendants opened the door for me and I sat by the door in a wheel chair for two or three minutes and prayed. It was a marvellous experience. We visited other tombs in the area, then we finished by visiting Fatima 's date garden. Mohammed made it for his daughter. We bought a basket of 15 kilos of the dates (very expensive) to share with the family at home.

At Medina we said goodbye to Qazi. Father gave him some *baksheesh as a gift in an envelope. He had been pleasant and helpful, and we were quite sorry to see him head the car homewards to the Sheikh, carrying our salaams.

From Medina we flew to Bethel Mukkoudus ( Jerusalem ,) which we found full of pilgrims of three faiths, Muslim, Jewish and Christian. Our Pilgrimage, which varies its time every year, by ten days according to the moon, this year happened to coincide with the Jewish Passover and the Christian Easter. The Mosque in Jerusalem is called Al-­Masjid al‑Agsa, the Farthest Mosque, towards which the Prophet Mohammed prayed, before Mecca became his centre.

The Dome of the Rock right next to it is linked with Abraham. David bought it and Solomon built his temple here, which Titus destroyed, and here the prophet Jesus walked and talked. Today the Jews wail by the remaining wall for their lost glory.

We only stayed for one night at a hostel near the Dome of the Rock, and I didn't visit it, as I was feeling too upset about not being healed.

We left next day for Karbala , in Iraq , to see where the grandson of Mohammed, Hussein, and his family and servants, consisting of 72 people, are buried. This was a scene of a terrible battle, when Hussein and his brave 72 went against Khalifa Yazid of Syria , and were martyred. Since then we Shia Muslims have always remembered the aniversary of his death, with mourning processions in the streets when men and boys go along lashing themselves. In the month of Moharrum people wear black and no one, in a city like Jhang, would think of arranging a family wedding.

We prayed for healing at Karbala , but none was given. We had been on Pilgramage for one month and it was time to go home. As we waited for the plane to Karachi , Father looked down at me:

"God is testing you and testing me. Don't be hopeless. Maybe at same stage in your life you'll be healed."

Dear, good Father, so patient, and faithful. He was trying to encourage me, and it had the desired effect. My wilting faith was revived.

I said, "All right. I won't be hopeless. I'll remain faithful to the Prophet and to Allah." And I laughed, to show I didn't really mind going as I came.

He stooped and kissed me. "I was expecting this from you," he said.

The servants too whispered, "Bibi, just wait upon Allah." So we flew back to Lahore , via Karachi , feeling that some special compensatory blessing would attach itself to me because of the Pilgrimage, but aware that we had to wait the time of Allah for it to be revealed. We were met at the airport in Lahore by our family, and by our servants.

They brought garlands of sharp‑smelling orange and yellow marigold flowers to put around our necks. They all touched us and called out Allahu Akbar, for it was a blessing to touch a Hajji. They looked at me, still crippled, but made no comment.

Father said to my brothers and sisters:

"God isn't an unjust God. We must have the patience to wait God's time."

"That's right. Our sister must have the patience to wait."

We stayed overnight in Lahore in a bungalow owned by one of the family and travelled back next day in a convoy of cars, to be greeted by the rest of the household with a joyful welcome.

The Wedding

To return from Hajj was almost as exciting as going there. "Let me touch you," said Samina, and wanted to hear, over and over, all we had seen and done. It was like this whenever pilgrims returned from Mecca . Crowds of people in Lahore would run to the station shouting "Ya Moham­med," and "Ya rasool Arbi" and would try to touch the Hajji, as they came off the train from Karachi . Thus they would get free some of the blessings which others had acquired at such great cost.

The excitement lasted a month, during which time relatives travelled from far and near, and people of the city came too, bringing little presents—this being a tradition of the homecoming. Relatives and special friends received our bottles of holy water from the spring of Zamzam. A bottle went to the maulvi, who came to see Father to discuss the Holy Quran and the Hadith for many hours each week.

As for me, "God bless you" everyone said, with new meaning, because I had been on Hajj. What we all wanted, of course, was my healing, but that hadn't been granted. If there were under currents of criticism about this, none reached me. The family merely sighed and kissed me and said "God will heal you in the future, Bibiji. We must bow to His will."

So although there was this real sadness in my heart, at the apparent failure of our purpose, in other ways there was growth. I had seen more than many in our city, where people could save all their lives and still not have enough money to go on pilgrimage. That intensity of feeling I had witnessed at the Ka'aba remained with me, making me dimly aware that for some there was a journey—like the Sufi "journey of the heart"—of which the pilgrimage to Mecca was an outward symbol. The goal of those travellers was that they should be utterly submitted to the divine Will—Islam means "surrender." I would not have put it so neatly at 14, yet I remember how strong the certainty grew that I should keep away from everything that would contaminate me, in order to devote myself more When the azzan sounded, it was with a clearer intent that I bowed, on my prayer mat with the arch turned to the Ka'aba and Salima supporting me. It wasn't only because of what I had been taught, but because of a felt need. At different times during the day, knowing of no other way to offer the prayers of my heart for a healing touch, I passed through my fingers the string of beads brought back from Medina , repeating the word Bismillah (the name of God) with every bead. But with no means of knowing God's will in the matter, and there being no improvement, I went on praying my mechanical prayers, and looked set fair to do that for the rest of my days.

After all the excitement of the month after our return, July was quieter. I think Father was depressed about me. Suddenly he said, "Let's have a wedding."

"Oh Father"—I could have danced with delight. I loved weddings. One of my earliest recollections, if not the earliest, was of my oldest sister's wedding to a cousin when I was four years old. Anis Bibi was 14 at the time.

I remembered the red dress she had made for me, of the same material and colour as her own. Hers was richly embroidered with gold, and she wore fine jewellery in her hair, with a crown and a pearl‑encrusted nose ring. On the right hand she wore five rings attached by a punjangla to bracelets round her wrist, and over all a dupatta made of the finest silk gauze. I sat on her knee almost the whole time, and she held me tightly and protectively, hugging me as I sometimes hugged my doll. When the maulvi came in to say the words of the marriage over her, I felt her tremble, and I patted her cheek, under the veil, to find it was wet with tears.

All the male guests were with the groom, next door and all the female ones with us. The bridegroom, as was our custom, had never seen his bride's face, except when they were young and unaware, but no matter. He would love her. Everyone loved Anis Bibi, who so resembled our dead mother.

It was a big wedding. Some top‑level people came. There were many presents. The dowry we gave was rich and it must have beggared Father. Twenty‑one of everything went with Anis Bibi to her new home along with money, gold, presents for the groom's relatives ... a fortune. Everyone said it was the best wedding the town had ever seen.

When Anis came to say goodbye to me I clung to her and sobbed. She was all the mother I knew.

"I will come and see you, often" she said. In fact she would return the next day, as was our custom, to remain in the parental home for a few days before leaving to take up residence with her in‑laws. There would be visits back and forth for some time, until the young people were judged old enough to set up on their own.

Safdar Shah's wedding took place at the bride's home, and it was the reverse of Anis's. Our women did not attend. We waited till they brought Zenib the bride back to us on the next day with her splendid dowry. She stayed two days then went back to her parents' home for a week. The couple had been engaged since childhood but had never seen each other, as was customary, but other things were changed. The bride was older, 18 at the time. She stayed with us while Safdar Shah completed his business studies at an American college, before going into business in a packaging factory in Lahore . Then they went to live in Samanabad and had a nice bungalow of their own.

I liked having her with us. She spent time with me in my room, or sat with me in the swing seat in the women's half of the garden. There I was wheeled daily when the weather was suitable, to sit among the roses and sweet peas, the orange and mango trees, and be lulled by the splashing of little fountains.

When we were there the gardeners kept well away, for an invisible line divided us from them.

After this, in quick succession, Samina was married and went to live in Satellite Town , Rawalpindi with her husband's family. Then it was the turn of Alim Shah. He had just graduated in law studies and he went to live at Samanabad, with his new bride and became an official of the Gas Board.

My marriage was of course impossible. We released my cousin from the engagement and he eventually married a very nice girl cousin from another side of the family.

So Father and I were left at home, and there began a precious period of my life, when I had his company in a much closer way than before. All his children were settled, and he was at rest in his mind. When the time came to render his accounts before God he would not be held to have failed in his duty. There was between us all a very deep bond, compounded of familial affection and religious faith. Our inspiration and example came from Father.

There were two other members of the household that I have not mentioned. Uncle and Aunty. They had arrived after Partition in 1950, the year before I was born. Many people were made homeless on both sides and Father, as was his duty, advertised in all the papers for any Sayed family in that position to come forward.

In due time, this couple arrived from Karachi and became part of the family. "Uncle" became an honorary "brother" and was helped to set up in a small wholesale business by my father. "Aunty" helped to run the household after my mother died, and took charge of me.

I liked them—they were nice and polite—and I was diverted from the emptiness of the house by their two children, a boy aged 12, and the girl, who was eight.

Aunty was a good‑hearted woman, very grateful for the roof over her head, but obsessed with the sufferings her family had endured at the birth of the Pakistan nation.

"It was terrible, terrible. I saw my own brother murdered before my very eyes ... oh, you don't know how we suffered. They burned our home..." and here she broke off, overcome by pain.

Gradually that sad experience took second place to the bright future she saw opening up for her. Her daughter was being educated, like her son. "She'll be a doctor," said Aunty proudly. "Abas, he'll go into the Army."

These were respectable occupations. For girls especially, the modern trends in education produced problems. What could they do? There were a few careers open to women, some of whom, especially if living in the large cities, were getting ideas which conflicted with tradition, which was interested in seeing girls married and into homes of their own as quickly as possible.

"Don't you think so?" said Aunty.

I pulled myself back from my reverie. "Perhaps so," I said.

"Oh yes indeed," said Aunty. "My daughter should finish her studies, and qualify as a doctor. Think how useful it will be when she marries and her children are sick."

I didn't mind her rattling on like this for an hour or so at a stretch. It was really only necessary to make a comment now and then to keep the flow going. It was a harmless amusement for her and it enabled me to think of something else.

Aunty and Uncle spared me many fretting worries to do with the servants, for like every household we had a number of these who had to be overseen, and for whose welfare we were responsible.

Salima had been with me since I was seven. She was a shy village girl of 14 when she took over my care. As I grew older, she was given an assistant, Sema, who came from the same family.

We had other servants who were organised for us by the Munshi, or clerk, from his office, near the front entrance to the bungalow. He took his orders each morning from Father. He saw that the shopping was done, that the menus were arranged to suit the occasion, that supplies were ordered, that letters went to post, that visitors were properly received, that bills received attention, and that a proper account of his stewardship was rendered each week. Lower down the chain of command, but quite a character in his way was chowkedar, the gatekeeper. When visitors rang the bell at the gate it was chowkedar's responsibility to find out what business they had with us, and if judging them honest, pass them to Munshi, who would then conduct them to the correct member of the household.

There were four gardeners—Dita was the chief, he supervised the buying of plants and the digging of holes to put them in and the setting out of pots of plants—in the sunny garden in the winter and in the shady verandah in the summer. There was a second gardener, who saw that Dita's orders were carried out, a third looked after the tube well to see we had water for the garden and for the little fountains splashing in the garden. Dita's son cut the grass and kept everything neat.

We had a male cook and his assistant. I never went into the kitchens—that invisible line prevented me. Rahmat Bibi was the dairymaid—she made the butter fresh every morning from our buffalos' milk. Lahraki brought the food to the table and Sati assisted. They also did the housework.

Thus power and responsibility filtered through many channels, and their interests and ours coincided. Wages were not high, because most of the servants lived in the compound and had food and clothing. They did not work as hard as people outside—or so I thought then.

I would never shout at my servants, and I was glad to see that Aunty, for all her scolding, did not shout either. I did once hear an *altercation with the dhobi, or washerman, who had lost some precious garment. It always amazed me how these dirty clothes would in a week be transformed to snowy whiteness, be made smooth with a charcoal iron, and brought back with never a crease—and all out of a mud house with only a hand pump nearby for running water or the irrigation canal to wash in.

Dhobi would never be rich, but in many ways he lived well. He was not paid in cash but in kind—wheat, a bag of rice. What he did not consume he bartered out in the villages for the things he needed.

"It's not a bad life. I hope I could live as well if I lost all this," said my father spreading his hands around to indi­cate his comfortable house and land.

Father had distinct theories on work in a culture such as ours. "Of course we have many servants looking after few people, but they do not cost much to feed and clothe. They need us as much as we need them. I defy any developed country to find a better system for feeding and occupying its poorer classes."

I had a teacher, Razia, who came to steer me through the intricacies of Islamic Religious Knowledge, Urdu, history of India and Pakistan , Maths, Persian, basic science. In place of English I took Advanced Urdu.

Razia was a kind, thoughtful woman, tall and beautiful. She came into my room like a breath of air, and thanks to her I took an interest in the world around me, listening to the news on radio, and religious programmes, and watch­ing the television set, which Father bought after our visit to Mecca , to soften the disappointment of my homecom­ing.

One day Razia said: "You are now ready for the exami­nations. I shall soon not be able to come any more to teach you." I was so excited at the prospect of the examinations that I didn't fully comprehend how much I would miss our lessons.

I passed my matric and then I sat all day, with nothing to do: Razia had another pupil, and couldn't come to see me often.

Father, however, continued to come in every evening and he would sit and read the newspaper and tell me news of the day concerning the business, and news of happen­ings in the town. Occasionally we went on trips. Once I had thought of our area as the centre of the Punjab —which, of course was the centre of Pakistan . Apart from the quality of its breeding animals and its growing indust­rial life it was also a famous centre of romantic interest. There was a tomb there of a young couple who were separated by life but united in death.

I heard the story first from Samina, in all its tangled detail and afterwards Father took us to gaze at the white marble tomb which commemorates the ill‑starred lovers.

It concerned Heer, whose name means "beautiful," and Ranjha, the farmer's son who wanted to marry her. A question of caste was involved, though both were wealthy. Heer's parents tricked her into marriage with the husband of their choice, but she still loved Ranjha, to whom she had become engaged. Eventually the king got to hear of this, and dissolved her marriage. But her doli, the wedding car, taking her to Ranjha, proved to be her *hearse.. Her uncle gave her a poisoned drink as she left the home. In true Romeo and Juliet tradition, Ranjha committed suicide.

Such stories fed our passion for romance. Not until much later did I compare it with my Father's feelings for my mother. That was no airy, romantic passion but a whole­hearted love that made him sacrifice himself for her, alive.

Death's Sting

I don't like remembering what came next, although the sting of memory brings with it consolation. Our father, always so strong, fell ill.

It was December, 1968, and there was heavy rainfall, and cold weather. Father spent too long out on his estate in the country and came home soaked and chilled. That evening he went to bed with a fever.

Next morning he struggled to his office, grey faced and sweating, conducted his business and came home again. That evening he was worse, with a strange rasp in his breathing.

The doctor came and prescribed medicine. The mullah came also and said prayers. The fever went down and Majeed took him to work once more, then brought him home again in a state of collapse and fighting for breath.

The close family gathered around and we bent our wills to help him fight the sickness, which was now diagnosed as pneumonia. Father should have been in hospital, but he insisted on staying at home, and kept trying to work from his bedroom. For two or three days he struggled. Then the change which we all dreaded took place: He was losing the battle and we were powerless to save him. He began to give us messages and instructions about the disposition of his property, and he handed over the deeds to Safdar Shah, who held his power of attorney.

Father thought of me, even in his extremity. He looked at me and gasped with a great effort: "I have left you a lot of property. Even if you keep 100 servants you will not be a burden to anyone. Look after uncle and aunty and give them whatever is necessary."

We stared at one another in terror. "This isn't happening" we cried to each other. He was slipping from our grasp, like water sinks into the earth, not to be recalled except by the sun.

I was in my wheelchair at his side and I leaned over him, distraught.

"Father, don't leave us. We need you. If you go I'll follow you," I wept, hardly knowing what I was saying.

He opened his eyes and weakly laid his hand on my head:

"This is a burden for you, but you mustn't commit suicide. It's a sin. Don't ever forget you belong to a Sayed family, the family of Mohammed. You will go to Paradise —so don't commit suicide or you will go to hell. Don't listen to old wives' tales. Live a righteous life and we will all be together with your mother."

Here he raised himself slightly and he grasped my arm feverishly, his eyes glittering with a strange, fixed light, as if seeing a vision. He gasped out, "One day God is going to heal you, Gulshan. Pray to Him." Then he fell back on the pillows, breathing heavily and slowly. His eyes closed.

I remained there weeping bitterly. "How can I have faith, if you're not with me, Father?" I sobbed out.

Safdar Shah then started to cry:

"Don't leave us. We still need you. You are our mother and our father."

I looked at my brother, the hard businessman. I had not realised that he had such tender feelings in him for this man who had brought us up and cared for us through childhood and youth.

Father's eyes opened. He was making a supreme effort of will to stay with us.

"Look after your sister," he said to each of his children in turn, and they made a solemn promise. Then he drank some water, said a few verses of the Sura Ya Sin in which we joined—and closed his eyes for ever. He remained like that, breathing heavily and slowly for several hours, while we watched beside him, then at 8 am on December 28th, 1968 , he died, while his friend the maulvi was reciting the Sura Ya Sin.

 

"And when the Trumpet sounds, they shall rise up from their graves and rush forth to their Lord. 'Woe to us!' they will say. 'Who has roused us from our resting place? This is what the Lord of Mercy promised: the apostles have preached the truth!' And with one shout they shall be gathered all before us.

"On that day no soul shall suffer the least injustice. You shall be rewarded according only to your deeds.

"On that day the dwellers of Paradise shall think of nothing but their bliss. Together with their wives, they shall recline in shady groves upon soft couches. They shall have fruits and all that they desire..."

We read this traditional passage through our tears, believing it would ease the physical passage of death for our father. Then Samina kissed his dead face, and we all followed her example.

For the next few hours he belonged to the males of the family and to neighbours, skilled in the rituals of death. They and the servants washed the body and dressed Father in a special white shroud, which he had brought back from Hajj, ready for his departure on the final journey. It consisted of a long shirt and two sheets to be wound around the waist and across the shoulders. They put a turban on his head, and wrapped him in an enveloping white sheet, placing him in a box, which had prayers and verses from the Holy Quran written all around it. This was left open for six hours for the women of the family to come and pay respects. Later the box was placed outside in the garden, while the mourners walked past in a never‑ending stream, each one bending to kiss the box and recite a prayer, or giving it a flying kiss of respect.

Father was an important and well known man, a religious teacher, a Pir, with his own murreeds (followers), as well as a prominent landowner and business man. His funeral that evening was as much the concern of the community as of his family. One thousand people attended including family, members of the business community, religious representatives and many scores of murreeds. It was a notable funeral.

As a Sayed family we had our own special part of the town graveyard, and here Father was laid, in a small mausoleum where his wife lay buried. Only the men went to the funeral. The maulvi led the prayers and everyone bowed down and prayed. Then the box was lowered into the ground and the mourners sprinkled dust on it. A chador or sheet of flowers strung together, was spread upon it.

As for me I was frozen with grief, immobile. Salima and Sema bustled in and out, supervised by Aunty, to wash me, change me, bring me hot milk and massage my head to ease the aching. I was dimly aware of the guard being mounted outside the door. "No, she doesn't want to see anyone. It's better to leave her alone just now." Even family members were turned away from my door.

I must have slept, because when next I was aware, it was 3 am by my clock, and I lay still for a few moments, listening for the small sounds which would tell me that the house servants were up, preparing for the day. We had experi­enced the worst thing in our lives, and yet the routine must go on. It's wrong that I should be alive, a useless cripple like me, and he is dead, I thought. God, I can't live like this for perhaps another 30 years. Please take me to Father.

Why was God so far away, and so silent? Perhaps my forefathers had sinned terribly. Perhaps God wanted to see more patience in me ... yes, but I had had patience, and I was still sick. If He would not help me I would have to find some way to rid myself of this wearying body. But how? Hang myself? With one hand that would be impossible. Poison? Where would I obtain it? If I could find a knife or scissors ... they were locked away. Even as the thought was voiced another thought took its place: "You will never be with Father and Mother in Paradise if you take your own life." As a Sayed I had automatic right of entry, even if I failed to observe the Five Pillars of Islam, but a suicide could cancel that right.

Perhaps, then, I would never be healed. My heart felt as if it were being squeezed, and the tears flowed unchecked. It was then, out of sheer helplessness that I began to talk to God, really talk to Him, not as a Muslim does, using set prayers, approaching Him across a great‑gulf. Driven by a vast emptiness inside I prayed as if talking to One who knew my circumstances and my need.

"I want to die," I said. "I don't want to live any more and that's the end of it."

I can't explain it, but I knew I was being heard. It was as if a veil had been lifted between me and some source of peace. Pulling my shawl around me closely against the cold I spoke more boldly in prayer.

"What terrible sin have I committed, that You have made me live like this?" I sobbed. "As soon as I was born my mother was taken away, and then You made me a cripple, and now You've taken away my father. Tell me why have You punished me so heavily?"

The silence was so deep and still that I could hear the beating of my heart.

"I won't let you die. I will keep you alive."

It was a low, gentle voice, like a breath of wind passing over me. I know there was a voice, and that it spoke in my language, and that with it came a new freedom to approach God the Supreme Being, who until then had not given me any indication that He even knew of my existence.

"What's the point of keeping me alive?" I queried. "I'm a cripple. When my father was alive I could share everything with him. Now every minute of my life is like 100 years. You've taken away my father and left me with no hope, nothing to live for."

The voice came again, vibrant and low.

"Who gave eyes to the blind, and who made the sick whole, and who healed the lepers and who raised the dead? I am Jesus, son of Mary. Read about Me in the Quran, in the Sura Maryam."

I don't know how long this exchange lasted—five minutes? A half hour? Suddenly the morning prayer call sounded from the mosque and I opened my eyes. Every­thing looked normal in the room. Why had no one come with my washing water? It seemed that I had been granted a space of peace and privacy for this strange encounter.

Later in the day I almost convinced myself I had been dreaming, when, with my sisters and other female members of the family, I visited the graveside. All was quiet and peaceful there and fresh flowers had been placed on the pile of brown earth. But I looked at it with horror. He who never would allow a speck of dust to touch him while alive was buried under that dirt. It was too horrible to contemplate.

When we returned from this melancholy visit, it was to keep a mourning period of 40 days. During this time Safdar Shah and Alim Shah would neglect their work while a constant stream of people from far and near, important and humble, visited us and paid their respects to our Father's memory.

All this time our food would come from our neighbours. No cooking fires were to be lit in our house. We were expected to give all our time to remembering the dead and talking about him to all who came. Our visitors sat on the floor to show respect and talked about the good things the dead one had done, so honouring his memory and cheering the family. It was a gentle custom, allowing grief proper expression, and bringing the support of the community to the aid of the bereaved family.

After our return from the graveyard, in a state of deep depression a strange thing happened. One of the maids suddenly screamed, and pointed to a chair.

"I saw him, sitting there," she cried. No one was surprised. The sense of the dead person's presence doesn't immediately leave the house, and in my Father's case we still couldn't believe he had gone. It was as though he had just stepped out to give the gardener some order and would be in directly. I looked at the maid and wondered why she had been the one to see him.

Aunty came into my bedroom and sat with me for a while, massaging my head to relieve a painful headache which had come as a result of all my tears. "Your uncle and I will look after you like your father and mother. Please regard us as such and try to look upon this loss as something willed by God. He has taken your Father to Paradise ."

When she had gone, for the need of something to do to take my mind off the happenings of the morning, I called for my Arabic Quran and started to read the Sura Maryam. But it was difficult to read the Arabic with full understanding, though its rhythmic lilting verses had made learning by heart easy. Here a daring idea took hold of me. Why shouldn't I read it in my own tongue?

I wrote a note for Salima, and I gave it to her when she came in to change my clothes.

"Please give the bearer the best available Urdu translation of the Quran," said my note.

"Take this to the bookshop and ask for an Urdu version of the Quran, published by the Taj Company," I said. "Get the money from Aunty."

Salima nodded respectfully and went out. Two hours later she reappeared, with the book wrapped in newspaper. "Good," I said. "Now would you go and make a cover for it."

That night, when the household was still and silent I unwrapped the green silk cover and took out the Urdu Quran. I held the book in my hand for a moment. I wanted so much to hear that voice again, with its assurance that my prayers were heard and that there was a way of healing and hope. The way to hear it again, I knew instinctively, was to obey its instruction to read. And so, full of curiosity and sadness, and with not the least idea of how momentous an act it was, I said Bismillah, opened the book and began to read:

 

The angels said to Mary: "Allah bids you rejoice in a Word from Him. His name is the Messiah, Jesus the son of Mary. He shall be noble in this world and in the next, and shall be favoured by Allah. He shall preach to men in his cradle and in the prime of manhood, and shall lead a righteous life..."

 

On the third day after our father died Safdar Shah came into his own as head of the family. One of Father's turbans was ceremonially placed on his head by two uncles—and from then on he was Pir in our family, and Shah. He would be expected to know answers to religious questions. He would make a good Pir. Some who had that title were uneducated and superstitious.

For the forty days of mourning the house was full of neighbours, visitors and murreeds and their wives. These had come to serve us, and they meant well, cleaning the house and serving other visitors with food. They also brought clothes for the family, which we were obliged to wear, out of courtesy.

"These clothes are clothes of death, not life. They will always remind me," said Anis Bibi, twitching her shalwar kameeze uncomfortably.

The mourning period closed with two activities. The grave was cemented over, and a stone raised. Everyone was invited to the traditional end of mourning feast, the chalisvanh.

A big tent was erected and the catering was handed over to a local shop. They set up cooking stoves and filled 150 huge pots with rice. Chick pea pilau was served and sweet rice, and everyone sat on durrees on the ground and ate off steel plates, with their fingers.

I did not go to it because I hated to be looked at and pitied for my deformity, but I heard about everything.

Safdar Shah now had to return to Lahore , but before he did so he came to see me and sat in the chair my father had so often occupied, looking uneasy. He was holding the paper relating to my property, which Father had left me. I knew what he was going to say and I had my answer ready.

"My dear sister" he began, "I would ask you to come and live with us, but for the fact that Aunty and Uncle are here to look after you. As you know, Father left you the largest share of the property. I don't of course object to this in any way, as Father cared for you so much and he thought especially of your comfort and well‑being. But since you're a woman of property, you may now live where you wish, including Lahore ."

I interrupted. "Thank you my brother, but I wouldn't wish to leave this house, where I have been brought up. I don't want to go to Lahore ."

My brother looked at me keenly. "Is it quite good for you to remain here to brood?"

"I could brood in Lahore too. Here I'm used to everything," I said. I did not add the other reason—that only here, in quiet and privacy could I pursue my search in the Holy Quran for the prophet and healer, Jesus.

"Very well, if that's how you feel, so be it," said Safdar Shah. I thought he seemed relieved. "I think, in that case we must put into effect our Father's wishes as to the handling of the finance."

It was arranged that Safdar Shah would put money into the bank in Lahore for me to draw out. I, as head of the household would sign cheques against the Muslim Commercial Bank each month for expenses. I would give money to Uncle for the running of the house. My brother Safdah Shah would visit twice a month to go over the accounts.

"I know that all will be in order" said Safdar Shah. "My father placed great trust in your discretion while he was alive."

So it was arranged to his satisfaction and he left. They all went, one by one, leaving me to a dreary existence, with no close companion, or friend, to share my loneliness, though I was not without companionship.

Aunty came into my room as he left:

"You are very fortunate to have so much trust placed in your hands," she said. "When I was your age it would have been thought unbecoming for a woman to know so much about business ... but your father (may his memory be blessed) treated you like one of his sons."

She went out again, and as the silence wrapped around me, I opened my Urdu Quran and read again the passage from the Sura "The Imrans," which was now so central in my attention:

 

"By Allah's leave I shall give sight to the blind man, heal the leper, and raise the dead to life."

 

There was a great deal more that I did not understand. Many clever scholars had tried to give their interpretations of the prophet Jesus who, this Sura said, was a created being, made of dust, like Adam, yet one who could, by Allah's power, do all these miracles. That he was impor­tant, I could not doubt, but who was this prophet who knew my need and who could speak to me from out of heaven as if he were alive?

I had lost my dearest companion and an empty life stretched before me. Yet a seed of enquiry and of hope had been planted in my heart. One day, some day, I felt sure I would find out the secret of the mysterious prophet veiled in the pages of the Holy Quran.

The Car

Father's blue Mercedes stood silently in its garage after his death, shrouded in black sheets, a memorial to the man who had filled our lives with happiness, now gone like a brilliant sun from our skies, leaving us chilled and cold.

It was the car of a man of substance. Father's departure in it each morning for his work was part of our daily ritual. The car itself was splendid enough, but Father added his own magnificence as he sat beside his driver Majeed, whose turban and straight back told the world how proud he felt to be driving such a master.

We children felt proud too, when we were taken anywhere in the car by Father. The boys went to the mosque school in it, and I went with Father as he sought medical treatment for my condition. Sometimes there were sightseeing trips when he took me from my quiet room out on the road to Lahore to visit relatives.

Now his car was immobile. No one liked to drive it, not even my brother, Safdar Shah. Regularly Majeed took off the covers and polished the car's dark blue surface and its bright chrome fittings until everything shone like a mirror. He rubbed the mahogony dashboard and waxed the leather cushions until they gave off a rich smell. He cleaned the engine in the same manner and greased every working part, jacking the car up so that it should not rest on its wheels. As Majeed worked he talked softly, as if to the car. The maids reported all this to me, with little giggles:

"That Majeed, you should hear him. He has lost a screw. He is telling the car: ‘You are not dead.’"

"Be quiet," I reproved them. "You should not joke about such things."

I felt, uncomfortably, that Father would hear, that he would step out of the shadows settling around the bunga­low as the dusk came swiftly in, and call for the car to be made ready, and would drive off, as though nothing had happened. As if to underline this one of the maids came running to me one day with the story that she had seen the master walking in the house.

"Did he speak to you?" I asked.

She shuddered. "No Bibi‑Ji. He didn't look at me, just went straight through that door. When I looked in there was no person. The room was empty!"

I did not chide her for an over‑active imagination, just wondered why I hadn't been the one to see his dearly loved face.

Yet that car was a symbol of my own useless state. Must the car stay in its garage for ever—an echo of the days gone by? Was I to stay here helpless, living on memories for the rest of my life?

My brothers and sisters had their own lives to live, and though they faithfully fulfilled Father's instructions concerning me, I didn't want to feel I was a burden and a worry to them. My gloom conveyed itself to my sisters. Samina asked me about it one day: "Little sister, what's troubling your mind, and making you look so sad?"

When I told her she said, "You will never be a burden to us. We love you too much."

So when one of the black moods of despair came I tried to talk myself out of it as best I could.

"Look Gulshan, you've had a lot of luck in having such a family. You might have been born poor like one of your maids. You might have had a father who didn't love you, and brothers and sisters who didn't care for you. You are quite educated. You have a roof over your head and Father has seen to it that you will want for nothing. Now make the best of your situation. Think about those days at Mecca , when you were so near to God and His prophet. Remember Father's words that God would heal you, and if that isn't enough for you, remember the voice you heard in this room telling you of Jesus the Healer."

When I weighed all these things in the balance they should have been enough to pull me out of my despair. Each day I rehearsed my blessings, taking the weights off one by one until my spirits could rise. Yet running underneath was the persistent fear—perhaps I would never be healed.

I turned to prayer even more *assiduously than before. My days wound on in a regular pattern dictated by the five set prayer times. I woke at three o'clock every morning and prepared myself for Fajr qe namaz, the dawn prayer. Then I read the Quran in Arabic until breakfast, which I took in my room.

After breakfast Salima or Sema would change my clothes, and then I would fill in time reading a religious book, or the newspaper, listening to the radio or writing a letter to my brother or sister, and having lunch. This was followed by a rest period, and then the early after­noon prayer time, Zohar qe namaz. When Aunty's chil­dren returned from school I would be wheeled out to the garden to watch their play. Two hours before dusk it was Asar qe namaz, and around two hours after dusk Maghrab qe namaz, the evening prayer. Last of all came the night prayer, to which most merit attached, Isha qe namaz.

Women were not required to visit the mosque. Instead, we said our prayers softly at home. I would as soon forget my food as cease to say my prayers, though these prayers were done in a parrot fashion. They were a link with Father, a sign that I was keeping the faith. He had taught me that if I was faithful, I would meet him in Paradise , straight after death, when I would have a new body. All the women in Paradise were going to be young and beautiful, so we were taught in the Holy Quran.

But there were deeper, blacker fears underneath which I hardly dared to confront, let alone mention to anyone. God must be angry with me, and that was why He had taken my Father. I was growing afraid of the God we worshipped. He was hidden from me behind a veil of darkness and unknowing.

None of this showed on the surface of life. In many ways my home seemed a paradise at that time. Situated in a green, fertile land, watered by five rivers, the Jhelum , the Ravi , the Indus , the Chenab , with its new dam, and the Satlaj, our city was thought a backwater by people from Lahore . To me it was a shelter from a wide world full of staring eyes and embarrassing questions about my disability. It was also a haven from a world full of disasters, murders, assassinations, into which I need never go to marry or earn a living. Listening to Urdu news programmes coming from the BBC in London , from the newspaper, and from television, I heard about the troubled world outside, and longed for my Father to be there to talk with about all I saw and heard. There were so many things I didn't fully understand, and I had lost the one who helped to form my opinions.

Of course there was still a lot of talking done in the house. I talked to my uncle about the running of the household and about business. I talked to my aunt about her children, about the servants, about the weather, about the flowers in the garden, about the weddings and funerals in the circle of family and friends. I talked to my sisters about their children and all the intimate gossip of family life, and to my brothers also about family matters and occasionally about the world at large.

There is so much trouble in the rest of the world. Here in Pakistan we have peace. This is "the holy land." That was their view of it.

Running underneath all this was a constant current of talk with servants—with Munshi, as he came to my partly opened door once a week to call out the accounts he kept so carefully. This was at my Uncle's insistence. Money was slippery stuff, and there were many holes for it to fall through in our household. He did not want to be held accountable.

I talked particularly with my two maids, who had been with me so long and loved me as dearly as I loved them. But even they were unaware of the most secret change which took place in me over those three years following Father's death, as I began to test the ideas which up to then I had accepted without questioning.

At night, after the children had gone to bed, and aunt and uncle had settled in their own room, when the house grew quiet after the last prayer call, that was the time I reserved for my reading in Urdu of the Holy Quran. The passages I sought had all to do with the prophet Jesus. But I found it puzzling. If he was such a powerful healer why was there so little about him in the Quran?

"Aunty" I said one day, "Do you know anything about Jesus?"

Aunty picked up a trailing end of her scarf and looped it over her shoulder. She said firmly, as if she were reciting words of a once learned lesson:

"He's the only prophet in the Holy Quran who gives eyes to the blind and who raises the dead and who is coming again. But I don't know in which Sura it is mentioned."

When I tried to show her in the Urdu Quran I met with resistance:

"You're educated. You can read it. But we still stick to our own ideas, as Mohammed told us," she said. I saw from this that she didn't really want to discuss it, but she must have passed on this exchange to the rest of the family because I was questioned about it in a discreet way, by Safdah Shah.

He came twice a month and stayed a day or so, to check the handling of the household matters, and to see how I was. My sister Anis came every month, and Samina came as often as she could from Rawalpindi , when she would stay a few days. Never was a sister so watched over, and yet so lonely.

Safdar Shah picked up the Urdu Quran:

"I am glad to see that you are still faithful to your religion Gulshan. Have you given up reading this in Arabic, as Father taught you?"

"No Brother, I read both in my routine. I read Arabic in the morning and Urdu at night. I want to find out more about its meaning."

He was happy at that. "Good, it is quite all right for you to read both, but don't give up reading the Arabic." And he left under the impression I was burrowing ever deeper into Islam.

 

"By Allah's leave I shall give sight to the blind man, heal the leper, and raise the dead to life."

 

For years I had read the Holy Quran devotedly and prayed regularly, but I had gradually lost all hope that my condition would change. Now, however, I began to believe t