The Difference

1942

Laughter rang through the narrow alley as the little girl evaded capture. A smug smile formed on the round face, but it slipped away as quickly as it had arrived as she faced a wall too high and too smooth to climb over.

            “Tag! You’re it!”

A hand tugged at her braid. The girl looked petulantly at her sister.

“It’s not fair, Ramlah. You’re bigger, and faster,” she said.

            “And you’re smaller, and lighter, Naf. But you don’t see me bringing that up when you climb over the garden wall before I do. Come on.” Ramlah swung an arm around her sister’s shoulder and steered them out of the alleyway.

            The main street was almost empty, save for two girls playing hopscotch next to the sweet shop. Following her sister’s longing gaze at the game, Ramlah nudged her lightly.

            “Do you want to ask them if we can play?”

            “Only if you speak,” Nafisah said, looking at her sister with begging eyes.

            “As always.” Louder, Ramlah said, “Hey, can we play with you?”

            The girls looked up at the two sisters.

            “Of course,” the taller one said. “What are your names?”

            “Ramlah. And this is my sister, Nafisah.”

            Sticking her hand out, the tall girl said, “Sayeda.”

            “Aisha,” the girl with glasses said, offering the pebble to them.

            Ramlah stiffened at the introductions, and very reluctantly shook Sayeda’s hand. In a sudden reversal of roles, Nafisah ran forward, taking the pebble, and jumped into the game, ignoring her sister hissing her name. Wrapping her arms around herself, Ramlah sat on the steps of the sweet shop.

            “Ram, here.” Snapping out of her reverie, Ramlah looked at her sister’s outstretched palm. She shook her head vigourously, catching the attention of the curious girls.

            “Are you sure?” Aisha said. “We’re not in a rush to reach our turn.”

            Eyes still focused on the ground, Ramlah said, “No…um…we just…um…have to…um...get home…um…soon.”

            “It won’t be Maghrib time for another hour!” Her oblivious sister said. “If you want to go home so badly, then go! I’m old enough to walk around the block by myself.”

            “We can walk her home, if you want to go.” Sayeda said.

            The offer tensed up Ramlah’s shoulders up. “No, I’ll stay. But I don’t want to play.” Looking at the hunched up figure for a moment, the girls turned back to their game.

            Every minute dragged on for Ramlah. Finally, the sound of the Aza’an rang through. Like the birds on the rooftops, she shot upwards and bounded down the steps.

            “Come on, Naf. Now we really do have to go.”

            “Aww, do we?”

            “Yes!” Not letting another word slip out of her sister’s mouth, Ramlah grabbed Nafisah’s sweat drenched arm and pulled her down the street.

            “We play here every evening.” Aisha called out to the retreating figures. “Feel free to join us any time.”

            Ramlah clamped her hand over Nafisah’s mouth and sped up, not releasing her sister until they had reached the corner.

            “Why didn’t you reply to them, Ram?”

            “Because…Look, I don’t know how to explain it. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

            The rest of the walk was silent, save for the usual ‘Asalam Alaikum’ to the Aunty next door; except today, Ramlah did not offer to help her carry her chair back inside. Hurridly ushering Nafisah in, she noticed two silhouettes at the end of the street, before slamming the door shut.

“Hello girls, did you have fun today?” Ramlah jumped at the voice. Arranging her face into a smile, she turned around to regard her mother.

            “Today was so great!”Nafisah said, hopping on the balls of her feet.

            “What did you do?”

            “Oh…um…we played tag…” said Ramlah.

            “And then we made two new friends and played hopscotch with them!” Ignoring her sister’s glare, Nafisah continued on. “Well, I played. Ram just sat there.”

            “I didn’t want to play.” Ramlah said. Unfortunately, her mother pursued the topic.

            “That’s nice. What were their names?”

            Now in an environment where she was comfortable, Nafisah shot off before Ramlah could salvage the situation.

            “Aisha and Sayeda. They looked about the same age as Ram, and were both really nice and let me have Ram’s turns as well. I won lots of times! And I’ve been invited to play with them again!”

            Ramlah squeezed her eyes shut so as to avoid seeing her mother’s expression. Even still, a thickness filled the room, going over Nafisah’s head as she rambled on.

            “Nafisah Rangwala, I don’t want you meeting those girls again.” Their mother said.

            “But why?”

            “They’re not Bohris. There are a lot of differences between us, and it’s better that you don’t become friends with those girls.”

            “But Ami, most of my class is non-Bohri! My teacher is non-Bohri!”

            “Yes, and you can’t help that. Interact with them when you have to, but the people you’re close to should be your own kind.”

            “But Ami—“

            “This discussion is over, Nafisah! You’re only eight right now, you don’t understand these things, so just do as I say!”

1989

            A couple strolled leisurely under the warm March sun. Taking advantage of the few nice days before the scorching Karachi heat would take over, they flopped down on the grass. The boy’s fingers tickled the grass as he placed his hand over the girl’s.

            “Look at that, Fahim,” the girl said, gesturing to the large building across the lawn. “In a few months, we’ll be out of here. We’ll be the ones giving advice to the new Aga Khan University students.”

            “And hopefully working in the hospital.” Fahim turned his hand over so the palm looked up to the sky. “Sakina, I love you.”

            “I love you too.”

            “Kina, I know we’ve only been together for a few months, but you’re my best friend.”

            Sakina smiled. “I know. Remember the first day we met though?”

            “We hated each other!”

            “Until we saw each other at the rang fight!”

            “Both of us the first to run out onto the field that day!”

            “How long did it take you to get all the colour off, anyways?”

            “Sakina, answer my question first.”

            “You didn’t ask one.”

            “Don’t act so smart.”

            “Then ask it!”

            Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Fahim said, “Will you marry me, Sakina?”

            Sakina’s thumb, which had been stroking Fahim’s knuckles, stopped. Her eyes widened, and her mouth curved into a smile. The only sound was the thudding of his heart beating ferociously, threatening to jump out of his chest.

            There was no warning as Sakina launched at him, enveloping him into a hug.

            “Yes, yes!”

            The words felt like a monsoon rain. Energized after a long bout of dehydration, he stood up, and whirled Sakina around. The bird’s chirped along in celebration, and Sakina tried not to think about how she would break the news to her mother.

That evening, when Sakina reached home, she took a deep breath before entering the house. The question would arise sooner or later, so she went with the direct approach as she walked into the kitchen, where her mother sat.

“Ami, I have something to tell you”

            “Of course, beti.” Nafisah smiled, encouraging her daughter to go on.

            “I’ve met someone, in my university, and we’ve talked about getting engaged.”

            “That’s wonderful. What’s his name?”

            “Fahim Hirani.”

            Nafisah’s brow knitted into a frown. Sakina’s chin trembled.

            “So he’s not a Bohri? Sakina, how could you get involved with someone out of our sect?”

            “We started out as just friends, Ami. I never expected this to happen.”

            “Sakina, you cannot marry a non-Bohri? Did you stop to think of that?”

            “I love him, and he loves me—“

            “It’s just not done!”

            “Ami, we’re both Muslims, and more importantly, we’re both Pakistanis. I don’t want to get married without your blessing, Ami. Please.”

1995

            “Nana! Ramlah Nani!”

            A chubby three-year-old ran towards the mourning pair. The older of the two, Ramlah, wiped her eyes and lifted the child onto her lap. Next to her, the old man, Juzer, leaned across to stroke his granddaughter’s cheek, and then stood to greet his approaching son-in-law.

            As Juzer pulled Fahim into a tight embrace, the young man said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Abba.”

            “Fahim, beta, Nafisah’s passing is your loss too. You could have been her own son; she loved you as she loved Sakina.”

            “She made me feel as though I was a part of the family, constantly reassuring me when people scorned mine and Sakina’s marriage.”

            “Sakina said the same about your parents, beta.” At this, Juzer released Fahim, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

            The old woman did not rise as Fahim turned to face her. Awkwardly moving an arm forward, he quickly replaced it by his side upon her involuntary recoil. These ingrained habits could not be changed so easily, so he settled for words alone.

            “I’m sorry for your loss, Ramlah Khala,” he said, hoping this was consolation enough to the old woman as she wept for the loss of her sister.

            “Thank you, Fahim.” Ramlah said quickly, as she refocused her attention on Nafisah’s granddaughter.

            “Go find Sakina. You can leave Umme-Hani with us.” Juzer said.

            Smiling at his father-in-law and daughter, Fahim blinked away a tear and retreated into the crowd in search of his wife. The thoughts of his late mother-in-law gave him the strength to walk past the looks of contempt from those who did not like an Ismaili invading their space.

2014

            “Ami, I have something to tell you.”

            That sentence sounded all too familiar to Sakina. She had, after all, used them once, long ago, on a March day not too different from this one. Everything from her sitting at the kitchen table peeling oranges, to Umme-Hani’s shaking hands, mimicked the scene from twenty-five years earlier. Setting the knife down, she turned to face her daughter.

            “I think I know what it is.”

            “How?”

            The older woman reached for her daughter’s hand. “Hani, I said those exact words to your Nani when I told her I wanted to marry your father.”

            “Oh thank God. I had a whole speech prepared to convince you.” Umme-Hani’s arms circled around her mother, squeezing her in a tight embrace.

            “So, what is he? Ismaili?” Sakina nudged her daughter’s foot. “Sunni? Memon?”

            “Well…”

            “Are they a she?”

            “Parsi.”

            Sakina released her daughter. “Umme-Hani Hirani!”

            “You were just happy for me!”

            “Yes, because I thought he was going to be a non-Bohri, not a non-Muslim entirely!”

            “Ami, what does it matter?”

            “What makes you think you can marry a Parsi, Umme-Hani? It’s just not done!”

            Hani leapt to her feet. “Who says it’s not done, Ami? Some age-old tradition? Just because things weren’t done like that, doesn’t mean we continue on in that same rut forever—“

            “It’s more than that—“

            “Please, Ami, let me finish. We live in this country, so divided. We interact when we have to, but never let relations surpass that. Remaining in these specific groups just increases the boundaries between sects, and religions too. Whether we’re Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Parsis or Sikhs, we’re all Pakistanis. This country wasn’t meant for Muslims alone. Not Jinnah’s Pakistan, anyways.

“It’s become this, because we cling to the past. But this was meant to be a country in which all religions lived freely. Instead, ‘minorities’ are made to feel like outsiders in their own country. Even amongst Muslims, we hardly move out of our own sect.

            “Love is not based on religion, Ami. Rustom and I love swimming in the ocean. Would some Muslim in Britain, who has spent his entire life inland, have that in common with me? What about an American bred Muslim who finds chicken tikka too spicy? These small things that brought us together come from us being Pakistani, from us being Karachiites.

“I don’t want to get married without your blessing, Ami. Please.”