Amina's Song: Chapters 1–4

The market is overflowing with a dizzying array of goods—rows of glittery bangles in every color imaginable, bolts of silky fabric, and mounds of beaded slippers, hair accessories, and evening bags.

The market is overflowing with a dizzying array of goods—rows of glittery bangles in every color imaginable, bolts of silky fabric, and mounds of beaded slippers, hair accessories, and evening bags.

I’ve been wanting to visit Anarkali Bazaar despite Zohra’s warnings about pushy salespeople and pickpockets. Mustafa and I grew up hearing Mama’s stories about how she’d wait for school to end and catch a rickshaw here when she was a teen.

When she described sharing freshly squeezed sugarcane juice and spicy samosa plates with her girlfriends in vivid detail, I could almost taste them.

Zohra links her arm with mine and navigates me through the crowds, warning me for the seventeenth time to watch my purse. I wouldn’t be carrying a purse if I were wearing jeans, but I’m in a thin cotton shalwar kameez that’s more comfortable in the fierce summer heat.

“Bhai Sahib,” she beckons in Urdu, calling the man with a mustache and thick glasses Mister Brother to be polite.

“Tell me the right price for this. No ripping me off.” Her tone is surprisingly aggressive.

I watch in silence as they haggle in Urdu over the price of something I don’t want.

“I give you this for a good price.”
Zohra turns around reluctantly.
“Don’t waste our time. We’re in a hurry.”
“Come, see, very good price.”

“Okay, final price. No games.” Zohra challenges the shopkeeper. The arguing continues until Mister Brother finally gives Zohra a number she grudgingly accepts.

Zohra gives me another glare, and Mustafa starts to chuckle. I giggle too.

“It’s very pretty,” I say in my best Urdu, although I know my accent sounds pathetic. “What are these stones?”
“Lapis,” Mister Brother replies in English, beaming. “Very real, very cheap.”

Baba played this singer's songs in his car when I was little, and I loved hearing the drums and clapping. At night his powerful and commanding voice would lull me to sleep.

I try not to notice when he rinses the jug with tap water. Or when he pours the juice into three glasses that are murkier than they should be.

Our rickshaw drops us outside the entrance of the Wazir Khan Mosque, in front of a large brown stone gate with arches in it.

“You’re not too tired for the tour, are you, geeta?” Thaya Jaan asks me. Hearing the nickname my father gave me years ago sparks a pang of missing him.

I squint into the light, holding back a gasp as I take in the majestic onion-shaped domes and mustard and terra-cotta walls that connect four minarets, each topped with bright tiles.

I squint into the light, holding back a gasp as I take in the majestic onion-shaped domes and mustard and terra-cotta walls that connect four minarets, each topped with bright tiles.

As we walk around, Thaya Jaan points to the designs on the walls and shows us different patterns like flowers and trees, almost like windows in frames. It’s mesmerizing, and not like any mosque I’ve seen before.

“Can you imagine how gorgeous this must have been hundreds of years ago, when it was new?” Mama asks. I try, noticing how the vibrant parts of the buildings that have been restored contrast with the faint lines and weathered walls in other areas.

My thoughts drift to our mosque back home and how it was shut down for more than six months after someone started a fire that destroyed parts of the interior. The building next door to it, the social hall of our Islamic Center, was trashed and marred with graffiti.

“Your father said they charged the criminals who damaged your mosque,” Thaya Jaan says, which means he’s thinking of the same thing as me. He was visiting when the vandalism took place and was as shaken by it as the rest of us.

During the trial, the vandals said they had been drinking and what started out as a stupid prank had gotten out of control. They confessed that negative things people said about Muslims in the news had riled them up and inspired the hateful words they wrote.

Mustafa told me I was being paranoid, since they had no idea who I was, and vice versa.

Thinking of food makes me realize I’m ready for lunch, but we enter the mosque to pray. I admire the intricate tiled ceilings and imagine artisans working together to create them.

“You kids in the mood to eat lunch out? Maybe burgers or pizza?” Thaya Jaan asks. It’s like he read my mind again.
“Yes!” Mustafa and I say in unison.

I take a deep breath and make a bold move, playing the ace of diamonds first. Mustafa inhales sharply. Zohra cackles, confident I’ve made a mistake.

Thayee says the British invented high tea, but Indians and Pakistanis perfected it. That’s because our tea is rich and milky with spices in it, and our sweets are nutty, moist, and decadent.

I pull out my phone too and start to record the scene. “Chai time,” I narrate as I pan across the room.

I don’t share their language, their sense of humor, or their memories. When someone busts out with an expression, or a line of poetry, and everyone chimes in with a laugh or comment, I can’t help but feel like an impostor, or a shape-shifter who appears to be a regular Pakistani girl on the outside but doesn’t know how to act like one.