Maternal Suicide

It is the city of my birth. Founded by Loh, Son of Ram, it demands it be known as Pakistan’s second most important city. Its name is a witness to the interwoven history of its part of the world. It is an elegant city; busy, with atmospheres galore. But, alas, it is a faded city; a faded place. The smoke from the smokestacks has faded into the skin of the folk so they now smell of sulfur. The fragrance of jasmines, raat ki ranis, chambayless is all gone. The olive oil lamps, with dirty doused cotton burning all night, are the perfume of Lahore.

It was built in the form of a parallelogram and stands on the alluvial plain formed by the river Ravi. Since its inception it has spread like a rambunctious and uncontrolled disease. Across the river and beyond its boundaries. This city has tentacles which have snaked out every which way. It has engulfed humanity because it is a gaping maw. It infects Men to become such maws themselves. It taught me to clutch, to grab, to engulf.

The empress Nur-Jahan claimed that she gave her soul for Lahore and by that sacrifice purchased Paradise. I don’t know what’s worse – her presumptous assumption, or her exaggeration? Then again she, like me, is a Lahori, and we are the masters of hyperbole. Lahore, as paradise? Strange thought. If I give it some thought I know that today no paradise remains. The city that is no longer a parallellogram is nothing more than the paragon of melancholy. It boasts intoxicated walls drenched with the poetry of loss. One can imagine that the ghost of Lahore’s glory walks the dirty streets embodied in the disembodied spirit of Nur Jahan. Really though, all that means is that just like Nur Jahan, the spirit of Lahore is dead and forgotten – it lies across the river in Shahdara. The tombs over there are without splendor, without jewels, after their repeated molestation by the greedy grubby fingers of Man. Molestation has become the past-time of us Lahoris. If we can molest the tomb of a woman that gave her soul for us…imagine what we will do our daughters?

My city is one of tombs. On this side of the river, there is Hazrat Daata Ganj Baksh’s tomb with its saphrons and pluming yellows. On the other side of the river, beyond Nur Jahan’s tomb, there is a tomb for a murdered deer in marble! Back on this side of the river, next to Baksh’s tomb, there is the red Shahi Masjid. A tomb for Allah. The minarets point to the sky like fingers raised in perpetual testification to the glory of yesterday. The minarets are dying. They wear water stain wrinkles. Soon, I promise, these minarets will cease breathing. Soon even the minarets will be placed in tombs! But, for now, they continue to wheeze. Five times a day the minarets croak their affirmations. The are saying, pleading "We are still alive! Still breathing! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!" But the children of Lahore are just like me; we do not come to the rescue of the dying. Instead, we watch the dying go to their death. And when our mothers swallow the tasbeeh beads of sorrow, we Lahoris, as the undertakers of Punjab, return the dead, to Lahore, glorious city of tombs.

Upon my return to Lahore, a most unusual occurrence occurred. Lahore became silent. Five days before my arrival, the muezzins, callers of the faithful to the mosques, declared STRIKE! HARTAL! They were protesting, get this, the inadequate attendance at the Friday prayer! This is the logic of Lahore. It stops calling people to prayer because they don’t pray. In a way, then, it is ushering, welcoming, its own death. Suicide. That’s what my mother did. She, daughter of Nur-Jahan. She, a mother of Lahore. And I, like a true Lahori, did not act. I only stood to watch. I must prepare for its burial.

Philadelphia, USA -- 1-25-03