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.I saw a table of wine glasses in a corner and asked him what it was for.“Lots of the people on base drink,” he said.“Is it just the high-ranking people who drink?” I asked, “or does everyone?”He thought for a moment.“Mostly it’s just the top officers.”The notion that the foot soldiers and lower-level officers didn’t drink gave me a modicum of comfort—it was nice that they weren’t getting westernized.I resolved to talk with some of the lower-level officers and ask them how they allowed themselves to serve Muslims who drank.One evening a military van with two machine-gun-bearing Pathan soldiers in the backseat picked us up and took us all to the commercial area, to go to an open-air restaurant on top of a ten-story hotel that seemed to cater to upper-middle-class families.When the restaurant attendant realized that we were from America, he started throwing in English words, and everything became “simply the…” The daal was “simply the best.” The naan was “simply the fluffiest.” The biryani was “simply the tastiest.” His colonialized mentality disgusted me.He should have demanded that we speak his language, not the other way around.Muslims had to be proud of who they were.As he led us to our seat, I saw massive piles of red tandoori chicken, and kharay masalay ka gosht, and chicken jalfrezi.At least the food is native, I thought.We were seated across from a musical ensemble featuring a middle-aged guy with oily hair who took requests from the diners.He belted out old-school ghazals as well as songs made popular by Michael Jackson and Frank Sinatra.I felt angry with him for bringing these Western songs into Pakistani society.Music itself was haram, and good Muslims ought not listen to it at all.But if people were indeed going to listen to music, then they should listen to their own and not try to copy the West.I felt increasingly uncomfortable.Why was this establishment ignoring Islam? Wasn’t Islam why this nation had been created? Yet people’s attitudes, their definition of fun, the mix-gendered seating, the complete absence of Islamic rituals—all this was striking.It occurred to me that these people were thoroughly secularized, and that saddened me.By the time we finally returned home from dinner, the Islam inside me was gasping for air.It seemed as if everything Karachiites did led them away from religion.Why did they pay so much attention to cricket, for example? It was a mindless sport that wasted the mind and kept people from worshipping God.Why did some of the programming on TV feature a mixture of Urdu and English—and more important, why had Pakistanis made English an official language? This was an Islamic country, wasn’t it? The only official language should’ve been Arabic, the language of the Quran.That night I dug into my books and found the gleaming orange cover of The History of Islamic Philosophy, by Majid Fakhry.Just holding the book restored some of my security.Opening its pages, I read about Imam Ashari, who vanquished the Rationalists; and al-Ishraqi, the founder of Illuminationism, a non-rational Islamic theology; and al-Ghazali, who vanquished the Philosophers; and Ibn Taymiya, who showed that Muslims didn’t need logic because it was a Greek invention.I glanced through all the authentic Arabic and Persian scholars over history, and finding the name of Iqbal, the spiritual founder of Pakistan, at the very end of that list gave me a sense of comfort.It proved that Pakistan was part of the long, flowing river of Islam—indeed, its culmination.I concluded that Pakistanis who weren’t true to this history weren’t being true to themselves.The next night Uncle Saad took us to a big-time party at a superior’s house.The event was like something out of 90210 or Melrose Place.There were gleaming cars outside the enormous house, and servants in pressed uniforms ran around addressing every need.The event itself was in the garden, where food was served under white tents.Outside the tents there were countless round tables, laid out banquet style with fine china, and courteous waiters.The garden was stunning in its lushness, its damp geometry, and its crisply trimmed edges.Roses of all colors, as well as long rows of chambaylis and numerous other flowers, were banked against the main house, which gave off a golden luminosity from the chandeliers inside.The main event at the party was a game of bingo organized by a couple of professionals.They passed out bingo cards to anyone who was interested and then spun a huge wheel with great aplomb.Uncle Saad quickly picked up a card for himself and began playing.I wandered away from the table and went toward a corner of the garden where some young people were milling about.As I got near them I stopped in my tracks.The guys were all wearing Western clothes—dress shoes, pressed slacks, and crisp, collared shirts with ties.The girls were variously dressed in tight chiffon dresses, backless shalwar kameezes, and knee-length skirts.I crinkled up my nose at their immodest attire.As I turned away to head back in, I saw a face I recognized: it was the chador-clad girl from the airplane—the one I had found so beautiful in her modesty.Now she was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a skimpy tank top, cut off at the midriff to show off a diamond-encrusted navel ring.I could see one edge of her thong as she sashayed over toward the group of teenagers.She didn’t seem to recognize me but gave me a nice smile anyway.Feeling almost ill from the encounter—I felt she had betrayed all of Islam—I went to look for Ammi, who was off chatting with my aunt.“Why don’t we go to the desert?” I suggested.“We should go and see Dada Abu and Dadi Ma.”“I’ve been trying to persuade them to fly out here instead,” she said.“It’s a hellish trip to the desert.”“But there’s nothing for us to do in Karachi,” I said flatly.“We’re here to try to find you a good girl to marry.Uncle Saad told me he’s informed some of his colleagues that we’re looking.You’re an American citizen, which should be a draw.You’ll have plenty of luck here, I think.In fact, there are some girls over there,” she said, pointing toward the group I’d just turned back from.“Go talk to them.”“Forget it,” I said, feeling angry by the chador-girl turning into a secular whore.“Those are not the sort of girls I want.”“What are we talking about here?” Uncle Saad chimed in, joining his wife.“He’s talking about going to visit the desert,” Ammi said.“Why would you want to do that?” Uncle Saad asked.“Tell your grandparents to fly out here.”“I want to go to the desert,” I said firmly, “because I can tell you now that I’m not going to like any of these city girls.”“You want to go to the desert?” Uncle Saad asked.“Then tell me—have you ever grown a beard?”“I grew a scruffy one at college,” I said.“Pops told me to shave it off before we flew here
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