The Only Way to Feast

“Chaalo ladhkia, khana thaiyar rakh ho!” (All right ladies, let’s set the dinner table!) Grandma Sakkar screams over the voices of her thirty-one family members, as she dashes through her grandchildren in both the living and computer rooms. The teenagers (me being one, my cousins Sheela, Sarah, and Mehwish being the others) scramble out of their circles of gossip and scurry into the kitchen where the rest of the women are.

The last of the family has just arrived, which means that it’s time for the women to get to work, and for the men to start complaining about their growling stomachs. Shehnaz, a member of the late arrivals, runs to the kitchen, entering with a look of worry. Thrice over she apologizes for her tardiness. None of the women listen; frustration from the late arrival is the last thing on their minds. Over the kitchen counter she screams into the living room and apologizes to another group, the men. Most all ignore her, except for her father. Grandpa Mohammed frowns at the sight of his daughter.

“Dhas bhaj gheya Shehnaz! Sharam nai athi hai, ithne sareh admi kho thuneh bookah rekhi?!” (It’s ten o’clock Shehnaz! How dare you disrespect the men of your family by leaving them to starve!)? Ashamed, she puts her head down. Everyone knows that Shoukat, her husband wasn’t able to get released from his shift, but the finger is not and will never be pointed at him. Lazily, he enters the living room with hugs and kisses for everyone. Frustration is not presented towards him, only the happiness of his presence.
He sits down and faces the television set.

The channel is on the daily news, channel 13, as it always is accustomed to at around this time. “…Today marks the end of the Holy month of Ramadan. Thousands of Houstonians gathered early this morning at the George R. Brown Convention Center for morning prayers…”The clip shows the same scene as seen every year; the Convention half with the males bowing down in unison as the lens moves from left to right. The women are not shown bowing. Nor will they ever be. Gender inequalities are prevalent in both the religion and culture of Pakistanis. However, Islam emphasizes the “hiding” of the woman, to show the utmost respect of a woman’s body. In Islam, the woman is a holy being, and a threat to the sinful views of mankind. Thus, Islam emphasizes the importance of being covered (i.e. wearing a hijaab), and being a shadow amongst the males. Originally, religion promotes gender equalities amongst man and woman. Men are given the power of voice and the power to reveal. Women are given the power of innocence and holiness. However, it is the mix up of these two principles that promote the culture of Islam to promote the higher power of man than to the woman in present. Giving the man the power of voice and the power of appearance earns men the right to exceed in the era of today. It is of these two powers (voice and appearance) that our history, our ancestors of America and Pakistan struggled for, and today, it is only rewarded to those who have had them from the very beginning. The power of voice allows my grandfather to blatantly blame my Uncle Shoukat’s tardiness on my Auntie Shehnaz. It is because she does not have that right of voice to stand up for herself and make the correction.

Fumes of paprika, fresh naan (pita bread), and okra are sizzling over the stove. Auntie Shehnaz sweats profusely alongside her four sisters and seven nieces from the heat of the stove and from the release of the body heat being given off by these eleven women. The scorching temperature in the kitchen has absorbed into the texture of their hair. Everyone’s styled hair is now a victim of frizz and humidity. Eleven women altogether, prepare the feast for tonight. No man is to help. The hand of a woman releases more blessings than that of the man. This in reason is why Pakistani culture emphasizes the importance of women cooking and preparing.

Grandma Sakkar sets the okra and the tomato past Indian gravy onto the table. The last of the main courses have been set. The appearance on the table is phenomenal. The aroma of the spices, the smoke from the fresh rice, and the variety of food is a delight seen only at times such as these. It is the power of appearance, how it is displayed, that makes this dinner exquisite. And it is this beautiful and appetizing feast, which will be handed down first to the men.

“Acha admieyo, yeh behkhar bhathuo kho baanth karo or khana khane chalo!” (Ok men, shut that nonsense talk off and get to the table!) The women reluctantly circle around the table. We’re starving! It’s ten-thirty and it is only human for us to indulge in the aroma and spices displayed elegantly on the table. All twelve men, including Shehmir, my younger cousin who just turned sixteen, sit at the table, plates and fresh food readily available at their service. Two women are assigned to each man making sure each one of them have services available upon request. The fiasco begins. “Big Red thoh nah” screams Grandpa Mohammed. “Orh jhaldi! Khisi neh kuch zadha miri dhala bhegan meh. Theh reh kho patha hai meh khese hu miri khe mamleh meh!” (Get me some Big Red, and make it quick! Someone overdid it with the pepper in the okra. You know how I am when it comes to pepper!) Humiliated, my Auntie Shehnaz bows her head again and steps back away from the spotlight her father has just put her in for she was the one who cooked the okra. Me? I’m disgusted. The eldest out of all my aunts, Auntie Shehnaz faces the scolding of everyone. Her father especially. This again, serves as a mark of gender inequality. The man scolds the smaller woman, even though she is the woman with the most power. She holds the respect of all her sisters, including my mom, because she is the eldest, but my grandfather toys with that respect constantly. Meanwhile, the entire time the men are feasting, I’m watching behind my brother’s back anxiously waiting for our turn. The fact that his back is towards me is a reminder of how unimportant I am in the matter of this dinner. The fact that I’m standing, ready for orders, while my brother sits comfortably to fresh food, is an idea of nuisance.

Grandma Sakkar comes out of the pantry in a panic. “Big Red orh nahi hai! Ya-Allah, ekh ladki jah kher yeh bahjuh wale Randall’s meh jeh khar aho nah. Or Jaldi. Thu mara nana phiyasah beta hai!” (There’s no more Big Red. Oh blessed God, one of you girls run to the nearest Randall’s and make it quick! You’re grandfather’s thirsty!) Is it really that big a deal? Of course, I’m one of the two girls that run to get Big Red. My cousin Sheela and I roll our eyes as we watch our grandmother time our departure. As if standing behind these men is not aggravation enough, now, I have been sent to run the most ridiculous of errands. Why? Again, because I as a female must touch the drink to make it holy. Ridiculous. And why am I standing? Because if my brother wants more butter, another glass of water, etc. it must be touched by the holy hands of a woman. This accusation that culture replicates with religion is a bizarrely ludicrous idea. An idea with which I will always disagree.

Grandmother Sakkar says it’s only because I’ve embraced the American ideals of modern feminism that I feel this way; that a true Pakistani would never even question the idea of gender inequalities. But honestly, I think my grandmother is in denial. I don’t blame her. Seventy-two years of being hidden—being hidden from food, from freshness, from the rights so dear to American society, to the society of women—can really affect her philosophies on dinner etiquette. I on the other hand, will not be affected by these things. As an American, I may have embraced the culture of feminism, this movement of gender equality, but it is also in the power of voice, and the power of appearance that America has given me, and that I feel that I have earned, that asks for more. It is the Pakistani whisper that has been carried through my blood, through the ancestors of Pakistani women before me, that asks for justice. This Pakistani whisper wants to speak up.

Sheela and I arrive to the sounds of requests. Useless requests. Requests that men know will be taken care of because it is the principle of the matter. They command, we follow. It is as if they know they hold this power, and they purposely make a ridicule of us; we are their puppets, and they have the strings.

“Thrusra chamchi thoh!” (Get me another spoon!) That would be my Uncle Shoukat.

“Ama, mereh koh bhi Big Red chai hai.” (Mom, I want some Big Red too.) Where is the respect? My mom doesn’t get a please from my brother.
“Orh khuch dhe sakhteh ho khane kha leeyeh? Mereh aaj kha khane nahi pasand. Meh sochra thah keh meh kuch orh kha sakhta. Soup shaid? (Is there anything else to eat? I’m not quite feeling what’s out on the table tonight. I’m thinking maybe I could get something else; something simple. Soup maybe?) And that would be my cousin Shehmir.

Twenty minutes later. The food is gone, the men are full, but their conversations are still in full bloom.

UGH! When is this power of voice going to give us women some justice? Another ten minutes and I promised myself I’d tell them to take their conversation into the living room. Only I know I won’t. It’s not in my Pakistani blood. Those whispers are telling me to restrain my frustration.

“Yeah, Bush is a horrible president for us Pakistanis, but what the hell does your five-figure ass think he can do about it? You don’t see us six figures complaining!” (Again my Uncle Shoukat. He’s tardy, he’s cocky, and he’s a pain. What a horrible, filthy voice. Very much representative of his character.)

“Hey Shehmir, when you gonna race with your older cousin? You know my Prelude can dominate your rinky dink hatchback within seconds.” This would be my brother.

Among men, it’s okay to speak in English. But with women, English is foreign. Do they forget that I’m a nineteen year old in college IN America? Or that my mother and her sisters have been in America for twenty years? Men, and their voices, can sometimes be so blatantly ignorant.

Forty minutes later, the men decide that dinner is over. This is of course, twenty minutes after they have stopped eating. Quickly, all eleven ladies clear the table for the kids.

Twenty minutes later, the thirteen kids, age’s four to ten, gather around the table. Some are fed, depending upon the age and ignorance level. Eight boys, five girls. The rice is beginning to get lukewarm, and the okra is gone. Quickly two women are assigned to fry samosas.

“Mereh kho bhook laghi hai!” (I’m starving!) “Why can’t I sit with the guys? I’m eleven years old! What more of a man do you want?” Shamrez, my younger cousin. He’s dying to be the first to be fed. He wanted to sit with the men, not because he would be the first to eat, but because of the power and respect that comes with eating first. Ay Shamrez, you and I both. I’m also dying to have that power and respect that is deserving of me.

Ten minutes later, the samosas are ready. The food is set once more at the table. While the men were given a peaceful dinner, the children are surrounded by the yells and commands of their moms, grandmother, and older cousins. This is the only opportunity we women have to grab the men’s power of voice. So we use it to our advantage.

“Hurry up! Your sister and mother are hungry. Quit your yappin’ and eat! EAT, EAT, EAT!” A sigh of relief is released as soon as I say this. Finally, I get the power of voice.

Afraid of hearing yet another lecture from their mothers and sisters, the children eat in a hurry. Most of them leave, saving their appetite for dessert. Two cakes, kheer (rice pudding), and a ton of candy will be served for them in a matter of minutes.

It’s a bit past midnight. Exhausted, the women set whatever is left of the feast into the microwave to indulge in the semi-fresh taste. The men in the background complain. They are ready for tea and dessert. Will we have dinner without the commands of men in the background? When will be able to have a peaceful dinner like theirs? The kids run frantically around the table. They want chocolate. My aunts, cousins, grandmother, and I sit in silence and scarf down as much as we can. Every once in a while, someone stands up to serve the women beverages. My mother gets up in the middle of her bite of biryani to start the stove for tea.

My dad whistles from the living room. My mom turns to him as she turns on the stove. “Can you get me a toothpick please?” With the last of the patience my mom has, she grabs a handful of toothpicks and lays them on the coffee table with aggravation. A loud thud can be heard from the kitchen when her hand pounds onto the coffee table. She mumbles her frustration under her breath. A whisper, that’s all that is allowed to come out.

Right when the tea is ready, the table is cleared; again we eleven women set out to serve the fresh tea. Then we serve the cake. Of course, in between the process, the kids arrive and make us the target of obstruction, threatening to pull ponytails if the cake is not given to them first. The women compromise and give the kids the first slices of the cake.

My cousins Mehwish and Sarah assign themselves to wash the dishes. It was a lost cause. They have to wash every dish by hand, to finish the blessing of dinner with each dish being carefully hand washed by the holy hand. What utter nonsense. Right next to them is the dishwasher; the machine of feminism. Only they are not allowed to make use of it. My grandmother would cry and be in a state of fury. She’d question why we abandon our culture for American culture. And always with a guilty conscience, we would listen to her and decide against the dishwasher. I personally love dishwashers. They erase the myth of the holy hand, and for once, give women one less of a job.

Kheer, cake, and tea. Everything is served. It is now close to two o’clock in the morning. The dishes are nowhere near clean, and some women are not able to have tea. Some collect the remnant leftovers of their husbands and microwave the tea.

This tradition of serving dinner to the men first is a myth I am willing to erase. In the Qu’ran both men and women are treated as equal. It is the differentiation of powers and their understanding which makes these gender inequalities disappear. My theory is this; bring in the holy figure of a woman to sit with them at dinner. Why should we all sit separately and at later times? I, as an American have earned and freely been given the right to voice, and the power to appearance, as have my grandmother, mother, and aunts. Were I to be a true Pakistani, as my Grandmother would say, I would never have this conflict of dinner etiquettes. However, I tend to disagree. So many generations of my ancestral feminine blood have gone unspoken. Even in Pakistan, levels of feminism are embraced. My generation of women, whether Pakistani or Pakistani-American, have to stand up for what has been lost for so long. It is a start, a beginning of a long battle we will be fighting, but I believe it’s plausible to start with dinner. Sit everyone down at the table, encourage the men to bar-b-que, and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Make Shehmir get Big Red, or better yet, give the men another option.

Justice in gender is the only way to feast. By sitting with men, by not being their puppet, and by using the dishwasher, I do not feel like I am abandoning my culture. More so, I am reiterating my religion. I am emphasizing that the Qu’ran respects both men and women. In fact, I am not abandoning my culture or religion; instead, I am merely clearing up this confusion of gender inequalities that my culture assumes. Eat equally, but respect differently. There is a difference.

(all content Copyright National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States, 2000-2003, do not use without permission)