You knew it was coming. We all did. We heard the rumblings and saw the signs. Blind soothsayers and wise men cast their eyes to the stars and foretold its arrival. They made predictions of how the air would burn and the sun would scorch the baked earth and through it all, The Month would remain. Well, it’s here now. The Month to end all Months. The End of Meals. The Death of Lunch. Ramzan is here. And its timing couldn’t have been more dramatic, more trying and symbolic, for it has arrived at the hottest time of the year.
It’s been a few years since I spent Ramzan in the homeland. Usually I conspire to leave (suitcase, gloves, hidden weapon) but this year I failed for reasons too momentous to reveal just yet (wait for it…). Now lunch is banned and life has slowed to a crawl, so slow and anguished it’s like Sri Devi rolling tortuously along the floor as she, bleeding but defiant, drags her body towards the object of her affection, leaving behind a trail of broken dreams and eye makeup.
Iftar shopping
The first day of the fasts, my cook/helper/Baldrick told me that he no longer wants to work in the city and that he would be leaving first thing in the morning. Almost the minute he said this there was a surge of electricity in the power lines, which, in happier times, I would have interpreted as a visual affirmation of my anger. The transformer in the street blew up, the UPS gave a bleeping cry and died, and my generator refused to start. It’s shocking when one of your devices goes on the fritz and it’s depressing when two do so. But it is absolutely hilarious when everything blows up at once, leaving you to deal with the fallout holding nothing but a cellphone with 12% battery.
So, for the last three days I have been living sans utilities, except for occasionally running water. I have rationalized this (when I am not in a murderous rage at having to live in a country where this is common) as material for my memoirs. All the electricians and UPS guys and generator fixers (for they are all different people, none infringing on the livelihood of another) have resigned themselves to the fact that this is common in the summer. Wires melt, machines die and what isn’t incinerated by the heat is short-circuited by torrential rains. When these men say such things to me I am usually finding new and inventive ways not be in the line of their fasters’ breath, which is so strong I am sure it can be harnessed to generate electricity all on its own.
I have rationalized my deprivations as material for my memoirs
That this is a seasonal disaster would be a comfort were the same not true for almost every other day of the year. I spend so much of my working day (and resting weekend) just trying to address the latest domestic disaster that I find I have increasingly less and less time to do anything productive. I am sure most people are in the same boat. Nationally, we expend so much of our energy merely surviving that no one has the time to flourish.
This month marks my fourth year in Pakistan. This fact occurred to me the other day when I was staring at a faulty piece of electronic equipment and began wondering how long it takes electricians to get certified and whether or not doing so would be a useful thing to do for me. Four is a nice round number. Four years is how long it takes to graduate from an American college. It’s how long kids take to go through most of secondary school. It’s the length of time someone works at a job before reasonably expecting a promotion. In short, four years is a length of time that implies lessons and commitment.
Given that this is the month of reflection, I am tempted to list out the lessons I have learned from my four years in Pakistan. But honestly, I don’t want to. I imagine it to be like the things people who have undergone trauma/war/disintegration of all they know and love have learned. I have, for instance, learned not to trust; I have learned to be suspicious of all strangers and most acquaintances; I have learned to never count on state apparatus for ease or efficiency; I have learned pulling strings is the only way things get done; I have learned that when you call up WAPDA to tell them you have not had electricity for five hours they will laugh at you and tell you to call back when you haven’t had it for 36 hours and then send you a bill for absurd amounts; I have learned everyone is out to make a quick buck, from electricians to political aides to sitting ministers; I have learned that if you draw attention to yourself you are far more likely to be killed for any number of reasons; I have learned that apathy and delusion are necessary coping mechanisms; I have learned that depression is contagious, both interpersonally and nationally; but above all I have learned that merely surviving is not the same has living, which will have to happen somewhere else.
The only thing I haven’t learned is how to fix a UPS.
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