Let’s fly Sunni

It was Sunday night. My father called me from Pakistan, unexpectedly. He sounded terrible on the phone. He called from the hospital. I’d not seen him in the longest time--I’m talking about twelve years. I’d met him last in Lahore in the year 2010, on the day the Governor of Punjab was shot dead by one of his own security guards.

I’m coming to see you,” I said. I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was indeed very sick.

“Don’t come here--You may not be able to get out,” he said. “The doctors say I have a bout of pneumonia--they say I’ll get better in a few days.”

I’d to go see him. I don’t care what he thinks or feels about my visit.

Next morning, I purchased a round-trip ticket for the Business Class on PIA, the only one available. Luckily my face had a three day old stubble--I don’t shave on the weekends. By the time I’d land in Lahore, I hope my beard to be long enough to fulfill the criteria for entry: the hair length, of at least half the beard, has to be the size of a rice grain.  

I packed a Jilaba in my carry-on bag, the mandatory dress code. Most passengers would start changing their attire a couple of hours before landing. ‘The pilot’s usually kind,’ I was told, ‘to go over the list of items, the requirements for your own safety, before you’d get clearance for entry’.

The flight was completely booked. As I entered the plane, a burqa clad air-hostesses gave me a stare with her big black eyes, a pair of sparkling diamonds. Her stare made me dizzy. I froze in my steps, until a nudge on my back made me move again.

Eyes could be so powerful, I’d no idea. I showed her my boarding pass. She looked at my boarding pass, and without moving a muscle, pointed towards the Business Class, again with her eyes. Reluctantly, I moved towards my seat looking back every couple of steps down the aisle, hoping to catch another glimpse of that deadly force. The unforgettable pair of eyes were, however, busy welcoming the next passenger in line. As I tucked my bag in the overhead compartment, a waft of fresh Jasmine hit my nose. I turned around. A white blond girl stood right behind me. She must be in her early twenties. She wore the airline cap, her long golden locks flowing over her sleeveless shoulders. She wore a glossy red lipstick and a real short skirt. By the time she spoke the eyes of the burqa clad hostess of the economy class were already a distant memory.

“I’m at you disposal, my lord,” she said, softly touching my back.

“What’s going on here...?”

“I know your confusion my lord. This isn’t the first time, I have to explain. You must be going to Pakistan after a very long time. Right?”

Yeah---Right! I said, feeling dazed.

“My lord, this is Business Class. Burqa wearing hostesses are for the economy class.”

“But aren’t we all flying to Islamic Ummah of Pakistan,” I said in a whisper, swinging myself into my seat.

“Slave girls don’t have to cover up, my lord,” she said. Her lips almost touching my ear lobes.

“But isn’t that all Muslim women have to cover up?” I said, feeling bewildered.

“My lord, I’m not a Muslim. I’m from Latvia. We are hired by PIA in a batch, as slave girls, we serve only Business Class,” she said. “What would you like to drink? No alcohol, though.”

“Anything--But what’s going on here is not right,” I said, looking around to see if our conversation is being overheard by others.

“Are you by chance a Shia, my lord?” she said.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, if you are, you can register for the marriage for the duration of flight, if you want to be 100% kosher--14 hours is a long time. I can bring you the register if you like; we keep it in the cockpit. Usually the Co-pilot carries it along with other navigational charts.”

“I’m neither,” I said.

“What do you mean my lord?”

“I’m not a Shia, neither I’m a Sunni.”

“Well, my lord, for the duration of flight you have to be either one or the other,” she said, giving me a wink.

“Choose for me, please,” I said, giving up. “Would you help me decide?”

“I personally don’t like paperwork,” she said.

“Then, let’s fly Sunni,” I said.

“That’s a good choice, my lord. Once we take off you are invited to cabin 424 for relaxation and massage.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

------------------------

The flight was wonderfully comfortable--no air pockets, no shaking. Just silky, smooth ride all the way to Lahore. I slept most of the way after using room 424, and awoken before landing, finding my head in the lovely Latvian’s lap. I was dressed in a towel Jilaba, with PIA embroidered on its front. I’d no memory of dress change.

“My lord, you may now change into your own dress,” she said, getting up. “We’ll be landing soon.”

-----------------

At the immigration counter, I was made to enter a booth where a beam of blue laser measured the precise length of my beard.

“You can’t enter the Islamic Ummah of Pakistan. You’ve to be quarantined for three days at least, or till your growth is satisfactory,” the immigration officer said with a heavy voice. Except for his eyes and forehead, his face was completely covered with jet black hair. The tip of his beard covered my picture on the passport held on the counter in front of him. “Or unless you want to pay the fine.”

“I’ll pay the fine, sir, I said. “My father is very sick. I must see him as soon as possible. How much is the fine.”

“One hundred Dirhams for each day your hair will need to grow to the legal lenght--so for you it would be 300 in total.”

I had no choice but to pay him the cash.

As I came out to collect my luggage, I noticed it wasn’t the same airport it used to be 12 years ago. It was a different place, altogether. There were all kinds of signs in Arabic hanging from the ceilings and painted on the walls. In good old days, at least they had the courtesy to put translation underneath the verses, but since the official language was now Arabic--a switch that had occurred five years ago--they’d stopped doing that. A Quranic recitation filled the hall.

At the customs, a fiery looking officer looked at me from head to toe.

“Carrying any thing in your suitcase we need to know?”

“No sir,” I said. “Please feel free to check it out.”

He had me open my suitcase, and then he started fumbling around my clothes. He grabbed my shaving kit and opened it. Taking the razor out he held it in front of my face. “What exactly is this doing here?”

I’d packed my shaving kit without thinking. God, I should have paid attention to details.

“Did you keep this shamelessly petite beard just to show us?--To enter the Islamic Ummah of Pakistan?” He plunged his hand in my kit again and brought out Colgate Tooth Paste tube, half used. “Do you know this contains alcohol and some pig’s fat?”

“Sorry, sir. Please feel free to throw these things away. I apologize.”

“Recite the fifth Kalimah, then third, then first and then sixth--in this order.”

“I know only the first.”

“100 Dirhams for each kalimah you don’t know or remember--700 hundred Dirhams in total.”

“How many total Kalimahs we are talking about here, sir,” I asked, putting my hand in my pocket to get my valet out.

“1000 Dirhams in addition to the 700 hundred--for you don’t even know how many Kalimahs one’s supposed to know by heart.”

After losing 1700 Dirhams at the Customs, my valet had lost most of its bulk. I came out of the hall, rolling my suitcase, hoping next I’d be looking for a taxi. The place looked dramatically different. A large crowd had gathered to my right, under a flashing neon sign: ‘The Judgement Day Bar’.

Holy Cow! What the hell is this bar about?

Curiosity took the better of me and I slowly strolled towards the crowd; about a hundred men, everyone with a beard, thronging the entrance of the bar.

“What’s this about?” I asked a young man with a long flowing beard.

“Today, after a long time, we’re going to have both stoning and beheading at the same time, under the same roof--usually it’s one or the other, he said shoving himself in the crowd.

“Good Lord! Why at the airport?” I said.

“Can you think of a better public place than the airport. In Islam you must watch people getting punished, and this is the best way to set the example,” he said, looking at me suspiciously. “Did you just say, ‘Good Lord’?”

“No, I said, mashallah--Alhamdolillah, I’m a Muslim--Jazakallah,” I said in quick succession. “I think I’ll go now.”

“What kind of Muslim are you? You are not going to watch the beheading--the preferred way of killing of the infidels in Islam,” he said, giving me a piercing look. “Stay! It will make your faith strong.”

“I’m in a hurry. My father’s very sick,” I said. “Actually he has booked front seats for Friday hand-chopping ceremony at the Charing Cross.”

“On Friday, actually they do hangings after the Jumma prayers--Man where have you been?” He rubbed his chin, puckered out his lips and eyed me curiously.

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m here after a long time. It’ll take a few days to get fully tuned,” I said, turning around. Rolling my suitcase, I quickly got out of the hallway, towards the taxi stand.

The light was dimming out from the sky. I almost fell in a state of shock when I saw hundreds of camels standing where Taxi stand used to be. I stopped a passerby.

“Do you see what I see over there?” I said.

“That’s the Taxi Stand,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant. I mean, do you see what’s inside the Taxi Stand?” I said.

“Taxis,” he said, looking at me as if I’m out of this planet. “They are taxis.” Shaking his head he walked away.

It was only when I got closer I realized that they were indeed taxicabs. Each taxicab had a Camel’s head, neck and the hump festooned to the rooftop. An eager looking man in a deep orange Jilaba took my luggage from me. He pulled the latch on the camel’s hump on top of a taxicab; it swung open revealing the luggage compartment.  He threw my luggage in there and clicked the hump shut.

“Sir ji, where to?” he said.

“Faisal Town.”

The first thing I noticed, as we were out of the airport area, that all the billboards with pictures of women were replaced by those with men.

“Sir ji, when was the last time you visited Pakistan?” the driver said, lighting up his beeri. He swung the taxi on the Airport Road, heading towards Fortress Stadium.

“More than ten years,” I said looking at the billboard where a man with a long salt and pepper beard was standing tall, his arms folded under his muscular chest. He was surrounded by four burqa clad women. He looked very familiar. “Who is this guy?” I pointed towards the billboard.

“Sir ji, don’t tell me you don’t know who Imran Khan is!” he said.

“Sorry! but who are those women around him?”

“His wives. Who else? He is a model Muslim. This poster is hung everywhere in the country. Now most people here marry three or four times.”

“Why?”

“Men are in short supply--you will know soon why.”

“How many kids he has?”

“I don’t think anyone knows the count, if you ask me.”

Copyright 2011 by author A. Asif. All rights reserved